In Plain View

The guy standing next to Gatt stared me down. Typical sales guy: buffed nails, french cuffs and more teeth than a sports announcer. His cologne reeked from eight feet away. In my experience, any man wears that much perfume is full of shit and laying down cover.

“This must be our latest acquisition,” the guy thundered loud enough for everyone in the room. “Get over here. I want to shake your hand. Jim Schmed, sales manager here at WWST. You’ve got to be Maddy O’Hara.”

“That’s right.”

“Love your work. Great stuff. How’d we get so lucky eh, Gatt?”

Schmed gave me the Grip-o-Death handshake-the one they exchange right before the ref calls “…and come out swinging.”

“Really great to have you on board,” he schmoozed. “Can’t wait to see what you do for us once you settle in. Love to get some promo materials from you, soon as you’re able.”

Everybody’s heard of love at first sight. In my case, hate at first sight is a lot more common. Sales guys never make me warm and fuzzy, but this was something else. My last name and my coloring come from my father. My first name-Magdalena-and my hostile intuition come through my mother’s blood.

Schmed raised every hair on the back of my neck.

“Why would you need promo material from me? I thought the promotions department was going to work off my stuff?” I turned to Gatt to clarify.

“No, no, not on the show. On you.” Schmed winked at me. “You’ve made yourself quite a name, honey. And it’s my job to sell that name to advertisers. Right, Rich?”

“That’s right.” Gatt rubbed the flat of his free hand across his bald head and frowned.

“I am not doing personal promos.”

“Sure you are, hon.” My resistance piqued Schmed’s interest. He’d stopped scanning the room for admirers and focused all his attention on me.

“No-” I tried to make it sound equally cheerful, “-hon, I’m not.”

Schmed the Sales Shark and I played a quick round of who’ll-blink-first?

Then he barked a laugh. “Is she busting my ass?” he asked Gatt. “She’s been here, what?-five minutes, and she’s busting my ass already? Are you kidding me?”

I wasn’t thinking of the first five minutes, but of the five million to come when I forced myself to suck in a calming breath.

“I’m not busting your ass, Jim. I’m just saying, I don’t do on-air. Never have.”

Like any good predator, he kept his eyes on me and slowly edged in closer. “Why not? You’d be great. Pretty girl like you. Camera would love you. Camera would eat you up.”

“Thanks, but no. That’s part of my charm, Jim. I let the pictures and the people making news tell the story. I stay off-screen.” It also made me unique in the freelance world. By staying off-air, I could produce a story for any network, any station that wanted to foot my bill. My face and voice never became the commodity. Only my work.

“Gotta have promos, O’Hara. How else am I gonna sell you? Make up for what-all you cost us, right, Gatt? Cost us a pretty penny to hire a professional with your reputation. Am I right? Jesus-Priest, I can’t sell you, if I don’t have product.”

Ah. Apparently, rumors of my potential salary had ruffled the Sales King’s feathers before I’d even walked in the door. CDB, I reminded myself, cost of doing business. Nothing personal.

I started us off on a round of chuckle-chuckle.

Gatt looked back and forth, one to the other, before he joined the merrymaking. We all laughed together.

The sound faded.

As if I was full to brimming with good humor, with a last gasp of mirth I asked, “So…you renewing your contract soon then, Jim?”

Gatt cracked up. Schmed didn’t.

It was the sweetest kind of return. Was I implying he was using me to leverage Gatt for a better contract? Or was I hinting, in a fight between us, Gatt would side with me?

Schmed looked like he was going to say something very un-funny, but Gatt interrupted. “You got a head-shot, O’Hara?”

“Maybe something old,” I replied, suspiciously.

“Fine. Get us an eight-by-ten and your resume reel. Promo department can figure something out. That’s what I pay those assholes for. Which reminds me-Jim, Barb says you got both offices on that side of the hall tied up.”

Keeping my face ever-so neutral at the mention of office space, I mumbled, “I’m going over to make sure Ainsley’s not getting into trouble. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

The room had crowded up. Nobody had taken a place around the long conference table yet. Ainsley introduced me to the usual cast of characters: woman from HR, woman from accounting, guy from engineering, guy from studio and the promotions director.

After another eight or ten minutes of chit-chat, the door opened and a little busha in a business suit entered. She was fifty-ish, solid, glossy white hair and sensible pumps. Her Secretary-at-Arms followed, laptop in hand.

Most general managers are a bit like feudal lords. They command as far as the eye can see. They make continuous war on neighboring peers. The most successful of the breed trace their management style back to Genghis Kahn. Ruthless is good. Bigger is better. Dead enemies are best.

“Right,” she called out, hands on her hips. “Where’s our new star?”

Everyone in the room turned and looked at me. Most of the faces were neutral. A few showed more than healthy skepticism. Jim Schmed looked like he wanted to try out his favorite WWF takedown on me.

Welcome to the family.

Ainsley gave me a little shoulder shove. “Here she is,” he called proudly.

“Shirley Shayla.” She chugged across the room on sturdy legs and gave me the mutual respect shake-solid grip, taking my measure. She stood with her feet a bit widespread, her trunk tilted forward. The way you’d need to stand if people were always trying to knock you down. “Good to finally meet you, Ms. O’Hara. How are you settling in? Anything I can do?”

“Definitely.”

GM’s always ask anything can I do? the first time they meet you. The standard answer is, thanks for the opportunity to join the team, and other similar crap. No GM has ever asked me that question twice. Which is why it’s a good idea to have a list ready.

“For a start, I need an office with a door.”

She tipped her head and stared at me over the top of her frameless glasses. “I’ll see what I can find for you, Ms. O’Hara. See what I can find.”

11:16:00 a.m.

He had to find it. Had to find it all. Now.

Being in the house like this was making his palms so wet, the cornstarch inside the gloves was congealing into lumps.

He searched the top of the medicine cabinet first, trying to think like Gina. She was compulsive about where she kept that kind of shit. She would never leave a bag of medical samples someplace the kid might get her hands on it.

Gina was a good mother.

Next, he searched the bedroom and bathroom. Opening the bedroom door had been a shock. It was like a museum in there. Nothing had been taken away, moved, even touched. There was dust on everything. Not that he was some kind of a clean freak, but he started sneezing the minute he opened a drawer.

Maddy O’Hara might be hot shit in TV-land but she was a lazy bitch when it came to housework.

After an hour of careful searching, he was pretty certain Gina hadn’t hidden the bag in her room. He put everything back exactly as he found it, but he hated the fact that the room was gathering dust.

Someone ought to do something.