It was a sweltering August day in New York City, the kind of day where you could see the heat shimmering off the sidewalk. At the corner of 45th and Broadway, Ann Lesage crossed the street with the light, then glanced quickly over her shoulder and scanned the crowd.
Nothing untoward caught her eye. Unable to shake the unsettling feeling that she was being followed, she deliberately turned her thoughts to the Marriott Marquis Hotel, imagining herself walking through its doors and feeling the cool air on her skin.
Arriving at the hotel, she took the elevator to the eighth floor and strode through the open-ended bar of the lobby. This was Ann’s bar of choice, where numerous business deals had been consummated. Chosen not for comfort but its layout and bright lights, it was the kind of place that helped keep everyone on point, which was exactly how she liked it.
Making her way through the room, past tables filled predominately with men, Ann felt hungry eyes follow her. It was her all-American looks that attracted attention. The blonde hair, the long legs, and of course the breasts—nothing about her was particularly petite. But even after so many years, this awareness of the stir she created bothered her. To compensate, she made a habit of keeping herself as hidden as possible. The sleek off-white Ann Klein pants-suit she wore, with its tailored jacket that zipped to the neck, did the trick nicely.
The men who awaited her couldn’t entirely disguise their anxiety. The moment they caught sight of her, something small and electric seemed to prod their spines. They snapped to attention and sprang to their feet.
They had secured a corner table, one far enough away to give them some semblance of privacy. Each was nursing a glass of water. They had probably been there since before five o’clock, Ann thought, going over final calculations, solidifying their strategy to get her signature on the dotted line. She took a deep breath and paused.
Her nerves were raw but she wouldn’t let it show. Much was riding on this meeting. She needed no reminder of the huge risk her company, Hart Toy, was undertaking.
“Gentlemen,” she said more easily than she felt.
The shorter man—Japanese and diminutive, well into his sixties by now—clasped her outstretched hand. Koji Sashika, the man who had been their business partner in Eastern Asia for twenty-some-odd years, had eyes that Ann had always liked. “Ann. Good to see you,” he said.
“You, too.” She extricated her hand gently when he seemed disinclined to release it. She turned to the other man. “And Edmund. It’s been a while.”
“Too long,” Edmund Chow agreed. “And you grow more beautiful with every moment I stay away.”
“You flatter me, or perhaps it’s just your eyesight,” she said, with a twinkle. He laughed—a startled squawk—and frowned. He had never known quite how to read her, Ann thought.
Chow was an independent contractor based in Hong Kong who, among other things, had spent the past ten years managing Hart Toy’s manufacturing and product development.
There was no time left for pleasantries. Ann knew exactly how she wanted this meeting to proceed. She either accomplished what she had come here to do, or Edmund Chow would go elsewhere. And neither she nor Koji Sashika would be able to stop him.
Before taking her seat, she once again felt eyes boring into the small of her back. The last thing she needed was to appear paranoid, but she took a quick look around anyway, then sat, crossing her legs neatly and placed her laptop on the table in front of her. Koji and Chow followed her cue and took back their seats.
“You saw her?” Chow asked. “The doll?”
“Last week, as a matter of fact. Felicia showed me the sample you sent.”
“And?”
It was one of the most extraordinary new inventions Ann had seen, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “Felicia likes her,” she said casually.
Koji threw back his head and laughed. His gaze went in Chow’s direction. “You’ll get no more from her, my friend. Not until this deal is nailed down.”
Ann patted Chow’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’m just a tough sell.”
She reached to the floor for the briefcase she had placed beside her chair. When a waitress appeared, she ordered a Perrier without glancing up. She smoothed the contract Edmund had sent her on the table beside her laptop, then regarded both men.
“You know, Felicia thinks this doll has some potential but, personally, I think she could bankrupt us.” Ann paused and looked at them. “Since the buck stops with me, I need to be convinced.”
Edmund cleared his throat. “These terms are absolutely in line with what is common in the industry. How would it bankrupt you?”
The waitress brought her drink. Ann squeezed the lemon into it. “I’ve got concerns. You’re acting on our behalf as well as the other party’s, this … this … what’s his name?” She broke off and flipped through pages, looking for the designer’s name. She already knew he was couched as an entity, a limited partnership.
“He’s a friend of mine,” Chow said. “A local Chinese designer. He was gong to go to Mattel but I stepped in.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Chow looked stymied.
“If you’re his friend, why would you do that?” Ann knew of the convoluted approach to business in China, how honor was often confused with dollars and cents, causing it to be interpreted in many different ways. “Mattel would be a sure, solid bet. They might even pay these extravagant terms you’re asking me for.”
“But my loyalty is obviously with you.”
She still didn’t quite trust what he was saying, but she went past it. Ann began scrolling through screens on her laptop. Her raw cost to manufacture the doll was eight dollars and fifty cents. Once she factored in freight, overhead, royalty and advertising, she was left with a total price of over twenty dollars.
Ann turned her computer screen to show Edmund. “See what this amount says?” she asked.
He shrugged. “This doll can handle it. She converses. Her heart beats. She reacts to stimuli.”
“She does all that,” Ann agreed. “But what happens if we only sell half a million dolls instead of a million—which would, in effect, double our advertising costs?”
“Then you would cut back on the advertising,” Edmund suggested.
Ann drank her Perrier, met his eyes. “We’re being asked to commit earlier and earlier every year. Come January, our plans must be in place for Christmas. Otherwise, the big boys will grab the best TV times and we’ll be shut out.” She paused, then turned her attention to the other man, as if seeking him out as an ally. “Koji, you know this. We’re David. They’re Goliath.” Ann turned back to Edmund. “I won’t let Felicia become the stone in the slingshot.”
Chow looked boggled. “You want me to go to Mattel?”
God save me, Ann thought. “No. I want you to work with me here. Felicia wants this doll. But we’re small. I want you to remember that.” Ann knew where she stood. She was protecting a legacy.
Felicia had been dirt poor in the Canadian province of Ontario when she’d started her small toy business. Her own rags-to-riches story was part of the reason she had extended a hand to Ann, had given a hungry, runaway teenager a chance she could have never dreamed of. Ann would not let the woman’s trust be misplaced.
“It all boils down to this,” she said. And she explained how her published selling price of twenty-six seventy-five would be reduced to twenty-four dollars and eight cents, once the discounts that the major retailers expected for advertising, freight and warehouse allowances were deducted. “Do you see my problem here?” she asked.
“Problem?” Edmund choked on his water. “You’ll still end up with over three and a half million dollars in profit.”
“Are you willing to guarantee it?” she shot back.
“She will.” Chow was equally as vehement. “The baby doll.”
Ann didn’t roll her eyes, but she came close. “And I am the Virgin Mary.”
Edmund reached for his glass again.
Ann steeled herself for what was to come. Both humbled and emboldened by the negotiating process, she hoped she wasn’t overplaying her strategy. She leaned back in her chair and closed her laptop. “I’m sorry, times have changed. These days, we’re at the mercy of most buyers. It’s their way or the proverbial highway. I don’t relish being in this position but we have to face reality. Now, when we sit with a major retailer and get a number for a TV-advertised product, it’s only a number, not an order. Then we wait. October Toy Fair followed by the fair in February, where the number gets adjusted—up or down. By March or April, we might get official confirmation for ten percent of the original quantity we were promised. The balance goes into limbo until they see if the doll starts to sell.”
“It will,” Edmund said earnestly.
“Unless someone comes up with something better,” she pointed out.
“There’s no better doll—”
“Maybe not, but there are always new innovations, some new toy that could come along. It only takes one to cause a craze, and then this little doll would get bypassed and pressed into cold storage. At your terms, Hart Toy would go broke.”
Edmund reached for his napkin and dabbed at his mouth. “We might be able to compromise,” he said. “As I mentioned, the designer is my friend.”
“Friend-schmend.” Ann drank from her glass and wished fervently for a Scotch. Later, she thought. It would be her reward once the deal had closed.
She sat up straighter and forced herself to focus. She could not allow that unsophisticated Newark girl to show herself. She re-crossed her legs and sat back. Chow took a pen and pad from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and turned Ann’s laptop toward him to use the calculator. “We can reduce the royalty to twelve percent.”
“No dice.”
“What do you want then?” he asked, exasperated.
“Seven percent. Two-year contract. Advance against royalties of one million the first year, half a million for the second. I also want the rights to the rest of the world at one-third of the U.S. advance.”
Chow and Koji stared at each other
“I can go for ten percent on the royalty,” Chow said. “Not a penny lower.”
“Nine,” Ann said automatically.
It was like pulling teeth without an anesthetic. As each part of the agreement was resolved, Ann felt her nerve slipping. The risk was explicit. Felicia may have wanted this doll, but Ann was the newly appointed president of Hart Toy, and the doll’s success would ultimately be her responsibility.
Percentages washed through her head as the haggling continued. They were too far along in the process to call a timeout. Within a half-hour, they had reached an agreement. Her palms had become damp, she could sense the slight sheen on her forehead, but it was done.
Less than ten minutes later, Ann watched Koji and Chow exit the lobby bar. She collected her laptop and briefcase, then stood, her legs not quite as steady as she would have liked. She headed towards the part of the bar she preferred—the one with the windows facing Broadway, and a panoramic view of neon. The atmosphere was more congenial here, a place to socialize rather than conduct business. The men no longer outnumbered the women, and some of the women were dressed for a night on the town, formal dresses and the odd gown, costume jewelry and just as many diamonds.
She eased up to the bar and let her business paraphernalia take her place on the stool. She stood there for a moment, then reached into her hair and pulled out the clip that held it in a respectable twist. It fell to her shoulders, sleek and straight and yellow-blond. Pulling at it slightly, she felt a release of tension in her scalp. She flashed a smile at the bartender. “Glenlivet. Two fingers. Rocks on the side,” she said.
She turned again, digging into her briefcase for her cell phone, and tapped in Felicia’s number. When the woman answered, she let out a short laugh. “Damn, I’m good.”
“I know that, dear.” There was a pause. “So tell me your news. Did you get me that beautiful doll?”
“I did. And with any luck, she won’t send us to the poor house.”
“Thank you.”
The simple words made Ann’s stomach lurch. “Felicia, please, you know I hate it when you say that. You never, ever have to thank me. For anything.”
Felicia didn’t rise to the argument. It was an old one. “Bring me the contract in the morning.”
“I plan to do just that.”
“And enjoy your Scotch.”
Felicia knew her so well. Ann brought the glass to her lips and sipped. “I will.” She paused. “I love you.”
“I know that, too. Good night.”
The line disconnected. Ann dropped the cell back into her briefcase. Please, God, please, let this deal work. She took another swallow of Glenlivet. She closed her eyes briefly and repeated her silent prayer. When she opened them, the Scotch almost came back up her throat.
She had been right, after all, she thought. Someone had been following her. Standing behind her, watching her in the mirror, dark eyes smoldering, was the one man she knew would never share Felicia’s opinion of her, the one person who didn’t think she was good at all.