Body Copy (9 page)

Tremaine looked at the stopwatch. Pathetic. Almost four minutes. His worst time in years.

Michael Craven

Trapped in a hungover daydream, he was a little startled by his cell phone ringing. “Donald Tremaine,” he said, after hitting the “talk” button.

“Hi. This is Heather, from Tyler Wilkes’s office.”

“Sure. How’re you doing?”

“Oh, fine. Sorry it’s taken a few days to get back to you.”

“No problem.”

“Tyler would like to schedule an appointment with you.”

Tremaine thought, it’s about time. Then he thought, I’m actually glad he waited a few days. Sure, it gave
him
time to prepare, but it also gave
me
time to prepare.

“Good,” Tremaine said. “When?”

“How ’bout tomorrow morning at ten?”

“I’ll be there.”

The next day, at five till, Tremaine pulled the Cutlass into Think Big Advertising. Everybody’s right, he thought, place looks a little like Gale/Parker. But not quite as . . .

cool. Tremaine got out of his car and found the reception area. There, too, he thought, Think Big’s aesthetic mirrored Gale/Parker’s. But just a little off.

Tremaine sat in the reception area, waiting. On the coffee table, scattered about, were trade publications—

ADWEEK, Ad Age, Electronic News
, and the
Hollywood
Reporter
. He noticed there were an abundance of
ADWEEK
s and only one copy of the others. Must be the most important one.

So he picked it up. That’s when he realized why there 82

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were more of this particular trade than the others. Tyler Wilkes was on the cover. Clad in black with blue-tinted glasses, even though in the photo he sat inside at a conference table. Above the vanity shot of Tyler there was a headline that said: Think Big Is Getting Bigger. Then underneath the headline, in much smaller type, it said: But do they get respect?

Tremaine flipped through the magazine and found the article on Tyler Wilkes. It said Tyler Wilkes hadn’t come up through the ranks like most ad guys. Five years ago, it said, he was a mid-level copywriter at a tiny agency in San Diego when his cousin married Bob Means, the sixty-five-year-old founder and creative director of an L.A.–

based ad agency called Think Big. Think Big, at the time, was in a twenty-five story building in Westwood and was sturdy and profitable, but far from glamorous. Health care accounts, insurance accounts, and car dealerships. Tyler Wilkes and Bob Means met at the wedding and hit it off.

Wilkes was into his forties, but Means thought of him as the son he never had. Six months later, Means retired and announced the new creative director: Tyler Wilkes.

Wilkes promptly moved the agency to an open-space warehouse in El Segundo and hired younger, “hipper”

talent all in an attempt “to change the culture.” The article noted that the space Wilkes built was “clearly influenced”

by nearby Gale/Parker and didn’t really fit with the work or the clients Think Big had. Most surprisingly, the article questioned both Tyler’s advertising history and his creative abilities, pointing out that he had a reputation for being arrogant, and that the recent growth of the agency was mostly the result of one of their insurance accounts merg-83

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ing with another company. The piece all but came out and called him a poseur.

Tremaine wondered why Tyler would have this magazine on display. No such thing as bad publicity?

He finished the article and was sort of half-reading the rest of the magazine when he heard, “Are you Mr. Tremaine?”

Tremaine looked up to see what can only be described as an absolute vision of a young woman. Shockingly, dis-tractingly gorgeous. Playboy Bunny, but better, more sophisticated. Tremaine thought, how could one describe this woman and do her justice? Got it. Long blonde hair, big tits, perfect ass. Crass, maybe, but there was simply no other way. How can you have that up top and that down there? He was asking himself this seriously; he really wanted to know. This one, she simply defied physics. She was a work of art. Tremaine was trying desperately not to just stare. Or run, headfirst, into a wall. But it was hard.

She was incredible, magical, standing there, black pants, black shirt, big white smile.

“Yes,” Tremaine said. “I’m Donald Tremaine.”

He stuck out his hand and stood up. She shook it and smiled. Tremaine felt her hand in his. Soft, a little cool.

Man, this woman was incredible. Tremaine was entirely polite. Again, just making an observation . . .

“I’m Heather,” she said. “Tyler’s assistant.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Tyler is ready to see you. I’ll take you to his office.”

The two walked into the agency. Donald looked around and again noticed the similarities between Think Big and 84

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Gale/Parker. The fact that the aesthetic of this shop was an imitation of Gale/Parker was just plain obvious. No wonder everybody said it. It was true. It was the stepchild version of Gale/Parker. The open spaces weren’t quite as open. The exposed steel was painted an oddly depressing bright green.

And, off in a corner, there was, almost unbelievably, one of those basketball shooting games you see in bars. It all contributed to an ersatz feel, like it was
trying
to be hip.

Granted, the Gale/Parker space was itself a bit contrived, but it was really good contrived. Really well done, impressive, and, above all, original. This place just missed. Like a knockoff of a popular brand. Close, but no cigar. It reminded Tremaine of his surfing days when a company would rip off a shaper’s design. The board would basically look like the custom-shaped one, but if you looked close you could tell.

And if you took it for a ride, baby, it was night and day.

They arrived at a big, centrally located office, very similar to the awards room that used to be Roger Gale’s office at Gale/Parker.

“Here we are,” Heather said.

Tremaine looked in Tyler Wilkes’s office and saw Tyler wearing an outfit that resembled the one he had on in the picture on the cover of
ADWEEK
. Except this time he had red-tinted sunglasses on. Tyler was on the phone and he held up a finger indicating to Tremaine and Heather to hold on a sec, he’d be off the phone in a minute.

Heather went back to her desk, a few feet away from the entrance to Tyler’s office, and sat down. A young guy with a shaved head slowly slid by on a skateboard, the skateboard making that great sound on the exposed cement floor. As 85

Michael Craven

he passed Tremaine, he said under his breath, “We call her Drop-Dead Heather.”

“Huh?” Tremaine said. But the skateboarder was already ten feet away, out of earshot.

Then Tremaine looked at Heather sitting there at her desk and thought to himself, oh, right, Drop-Dead Heather.

Tremaine looked back into Tyler Wilkes’s office. Tyler hung up the phone and got up from his desk. Tremaine expected to be greeted at this juncture, but instead Tyler put up his finger again, indicating hold on one more second.

Then Tyler went into a separate, closed-off room that adjoined his office. Probably a bathroom. Tyler shut the door, then reemerged thirty seconds later. Odd.

Tyler walked out of his office to where Tremaine stood.

“Tyler Wilkes,” he said, extending a hand.

Tremaine was now seated in a chair in front of Tyler’s massive black desk.

“Do you like our offices? They’re pretty new still,”

Tyler said. Tremaine looked at this guy, his cocky smile.

“They remind me of the Gale/Parker offices,” Tremaine said.

“But not in a way that looks like we ripped them off, right?” Tyler sucked in air through his nose.

The bathroom trip.

Tyler continued talking. “We didn’t copy them, their style, I mean. Their style in terms of the office is what I’m saying. Or their style in terms of advertising! We would never do that. And the ad community knows that.”

Tremaine didn’t say anything. Tyler asked him another 86

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question. “So what is this about? The Roger Gale case from a year ago?”

“Sure,” Tremaine said. “We can talk about that.”

“Hey, I’ve already answered those questions. I had nothing to do with that guy getting killed. I’ve got nothing more to say on the issue. If you want to hear the things I said, you can just go look at the police files. P.I.s can do that, right? I talked to the cops over and over. I’ve told them everything I know. Which is nothing.”

Man, Tremaine thought, this guy’s wired out of his tree.

He must have gone into the bathroom and stuck his nose in a pile of blow.

“Listen,” Tyler continued. “I’m a busy guy. I’m running a six-hundred-million-dollar ad agency. A six-hundred-million-dollar agency that’s growing. And the ad community knows that. So, like I said, I really don’t have anything more to say about Roger Gale.”

“Could you tell me your relationship to him?”

“Look, I’ve got nothing more to say. I figured this was why you were coming to talk to me. Anyway, I said it all a year ago. Why don’t you go talk to his wife. He used to cheat on her, that’s what I heard.”

“I’m going to talk to his widow. But right now, I’m talking to you.”

“Well, I’m through talking about that.”

“Then let’s talk about other stuff.”

Tremaine looked at Tyler Wilkes, looked right through those red-tinted glasses and said, “Tyler, do you do any investing?”

Tyler now studied Tremaine. He looked caught off guard, worried.

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Michael Craven

“Yeah, I invest,” Tyler said. “That’s how you make money.” Tyler paused and said, “Look, what do you want to know about Roger Gale? I guess I can go over it again.”

Tremaine said, “What was your relationship to him?”

“We were business competitors.”

“Would you say you were equals?”

Tyler Wilkes shifted in his chair. “No. Roger Gale was a legend. But, right now, my shop is damn close to outbilling Gale/Parker.”

“Did you build your shop to look like Gale/Parker?”

“No, and no one in this business thinks that.”

“The ADWEEK article I just read indicated that people in the business do think that.”

“That ADWEEK writer wants to be doing what I’m doing. He’s just jealous. No one who matters thinks that.”

Tremaine looked at Tyler, some perspiration forming on his forehead, above the glasses. Tremaine said, “So, what kind of stuff do you invest in? Companies?”

Tyler didn’t answer right away. He looked out his window, maybe at Heather, maybe into space.

“Tyler?” Tremaine said.

“I invest in all kinds of stuff. The market, companies, my own company.”

Then Tremaine said, “Would you say that advertising is a cut-throat business?”

“What are you here to talk to me about?” Tyler said.

“Roger Gale,” Tremaine said.

“Okay. Yeah, I would say advertising is a cut-throat business.”

“Do you think someone in advertising would kill some-88

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one else in advertising over billings, over money? Is it that cut-throat?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, Tremaine,” Tyler said, a little more self-assured now, back to where he was when Tremaine first walked in.

“I’m asking you a question,” Tremaine said. “Is it that cut-throat?”

“I don’t know,” Tyler said. “I know
I
would never do that. I don’t need to. Look at my agency. It’s huge. We win accounts just based on our work, nothing else.”

“When you win an account,” Tremaine said, “do you usually get to know the owner of the company?”

“Yes. If it’s a private company, of course. That’s who gives us the business.”

“So, you have relationships with lots of company owners?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Do you know owners of other companies? Ones that you don’t do ads for?”

“What’s this about? Is this about Roger Gale?”

“We can talk about that. I already told you that.”

“So ask me a question about Roger Gale?”

“In a minute. Give me the name of someone who owns a company who you know, but don’t do ads for.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“What does this have to do with Roger Gale?”

“You tell me.”

“What?”

“I’ve got to go, Tyler. Thanks for talking to me,” Tremaine said.

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“You’re done?”

“Do you have something else to tell me?”

Tyler Wilkes stood up. Tremaine stayed seated. In the same position he was in for the entirety of their conversation.

Tremaine said, “If you do have something you want to tell me, just call me.”

He pulled a card out of the breast pocket in his shirt and threw it on Tyler Wilkes’s desk. It said Donald Tremaine, Private Investigator. Underneath that it had two phone numbers and an e-mail address.

Tremaine got up and headed for Tyler Wilkes’s office door.

“Tremaine,” Tyler said.

Tremaine turned around.

“Why did you ask me about my investments and about company owners and all that bullshit?”

“Why do you think?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I asked.”

“That’s what P.I. work is, Tyler. Taking all the things about a case or a person and trying to connect them.” Then Tremaine said, “Where are you from, Tyler? Where’d you grow up?”

“Phoenix,” Tyler said.

“Hmm,” Tremaine said and walked out.

Out in the parking lot, Tremaine opened the door to the Cutlass and heard, “Donald.” It was Heather, Tyler’s assistant, heading toward him. She trotted up and, jeez, he couldn’t help but notice again, wow, the body, the hair . . .

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She was one of those women you see in magazines, but not in life.

“Hey, I’ve got a question for you,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Stand like this,” she said. And she put her left foot out in front of her and then she held her hands behind her back. Tremaine, playing along, did what Drop Dead Heather said to do.

Heather looked at him and said, “Yep. You’re him.