Charley Fox looked across the table at the sweating man opposite him. “Do you have a cell phone?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” Finch replied, mopping his face with his linen napkin.
“Then I want you to call the New York offices of Just Folks and speak to the editor, Hazel Schwartz. I want you to instruct her to stop the presses, if they have already started, then to excise the Barrington piece from the new issue and substitute something else. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Finch replied. He set the phone on the table and dialed the office number.
“Put it on speaker so I can hear both sides of the conversation,” Charley said.
Finch pressed the speaker button.
“Oh, and fire Gloria Parsons. Tell her if she isn’t out of the building with her personal effects in fifteen minutes, Security will come and throw her bodily out of the building, preferably out of a window.”
“Yes, sir.” There goes getting laid tonight, Finch thought to himself. The number was ringing.
—
Hazel Schwartz and Gloria Parsons sat in the editor’s office, sipping from their own bottle of Dom Pérignon.
“I can’t wait for the fuss to start,” Hazel said. “This is going to be such fun.”
Hazel didn’t have long to wait for the fuss to start; her phone rang. She pressed the speaker button. “This is Hazel.”
“Hazel, this is Al Finch.”
“Good afternoon, Al,” Hazel said. “We just went to press with the new issue.”
“Hazel,” he said, “stop the presses.”
“What is this, a game?”
“Stop the presses.”
“Al, do you know what it would cost to stop the presses, then start them again?”
“Hazel!” Finch shouted. “Stop the fucking presses!”
“All right, Al, I’ll call them immediately.”
“Replace the Barrington piece with something else, then restart.”
“Al, if your problem is the Barrington piece, the lawyers have already vetted it within an inch of its life. It’s fine.”
“Replace the goddamned Barrington piece!”
“I’m calling right now, on another line.” Hazel picked up her cell phone and called the printers. She asked if the issue had gone to press and was told it had. “Stop the presses,” she said, being sure that Finch could hear her. “I said stop the presses! We’ll reformat the issue and get back to you in an hour or so.” She hung up. “There, Al, did you hear that? I stopped the presses.”
Across her desk, Gloria was mouthing, “What’s wrong?”
“I heard you, Hazel. Now call Gloria Parsons into your office and fire her, effective immediately.”
“What?”
“If she isn’t out of the building in fifteen minutes, call Security and have her thrown out.”
“I get it, Al, I’ll speak to her immediately.”
“Call me back on my cell when it’s done, and tell me what you’re substituting for the Barrington piece.”
“I will, Al.” Hazel hung up.
Gloria exploded. “What the fuck is going on? He just upped my raise to three hundred!”
“You heard him, it’s all about the Barrington piece.”
“Barrington must have gotten to Al somehow. How did he do that?”
“How should I know? Anyway, you heard Al—you’d better clear out your office and get out before I call him back. I’ll call you later, when I’ve found out what’s going on.”
Gloria stormed out of the office, swearing, and went to her office.
Hazel got on her computer, found a piece they had pulled from the magazine about a movie star, and copied it into the master. When she had confirmed that the substitution was seamless and that the cover tease on Barrington was gone, she pressed the send key, and it went to the printer. She called Al Finch back.
—
Finch pressed the button on his cell phone; he was still on speaker. “Hazel?”
“Yes, Al, it’s done. I’ve pulled the piece, inserted one on an actor, and restarted the presses.”
“Did you fire Gloria Parsons?”
“Yes, just as you instructed. She’s down the hall, cleaning out her desk. Can you please tell me what this is all about?”
Charley Fox reached across the table and pulled the phone toward him. “Ms. Schwartz, this is Charles Fox, CEO of Triangle Partnership. Does that ring a bell?”
A moment’s silence, then, “Yes, your company owns the magazine, doesn’t it?”
“You’re very quick, Ms. Schwartz. Now, I want you and Mr. Finch to listen to me very carefully. We are going to remake the magazine, or rather, you are, and before the next issue comes out. I want a completely new graphics look, modern and tasteful, and I want every piece written in that vein. We’re going after a new audience.”
“What sort of audience?” Hazel asked.
“Think Town & Country.”
Al Finch winced.
“I understand, Mr. Ford.”
“Ms. Schwartz,” Charley said, “if you don’t think you can handle this, you can resign right now.”
“I can handle it, Mr. Fox. Please leave it in my hands.”
“I want to see the new design work daily, as it proceeds. E-mail it to me.” He gave her the address.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Finch will be joining you to help out.”
“Yes, sir, very good.”
Charley broke the connection. “All right, Al, you can finish your soup now.”
“Mr. Fox, I’m so sorry about all this. I had no idea . . .”
“Of course you didn’t, Al. Now eat your soup, and when you’re finished, grab a cab downtown and supervise the remake of Just Folks.”
“Yes, sir.” Finch began to eat his soup, which was now cold. The waitress brought them lobster salad.
“Al,” Charley said, “I want you to start featuring houses, apartments, and gardens in the magazine, those of well-known people in the arts, business, and professions.”
“Mr. Fox,” Al said, picking at his lobster, “I’m not sure how we’re going to attract such people—at least, at first. We’re not known for that sort of thing.”
“Al, are you acquainted with Faith Mackey?”
“No, but I certainly know who she is.”
“Well, Just Folks is her newest client. She’s going to round up the people featured in the magazine and secure their cooperation.”
“Well, that’s wonderful,” Finch said.
“I thought you’d think so,” Charley replied, then he turned to his own lobster.
—
Fifteen minutes later, Al Finch was in a cab, headed downtown.