“I’m Len,” he said. “Abbreviated Leonard. Senior writer. Call me Len.”
“Joseph,” I said.
“No,” he said. “It’s Len.”
“No, I’m Joseph.”
“Right,” he said. “Joe.”
I’d never really liked being called Joe, and outside of my father, no one did. “Joseph,” I repeated. “Or J.J.”
“J.J. What are you, a rapper?” He pulled a chair from an empty desk across from mine and sat down, looking me over.
“Nice suit,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“No one wears suits here. Not in this century.”
“Noted.”
“Where are you from, J.J.?”
“Denver.”
“Go Broncos. I still miss Elway. What agency?”
“A regional firm. Jacobson Advertising.”
“Never heard of it,” he said. “So this is your first time adrift in the big sea.” He leaned in closer. “Let me tell you how we sail in the Windy City. If you want to survive, put in your time, keep sharp and stay below the radar. Potts is a beast. Creative, good at his job, but a beast. Have you met him?”
“Not yet.”
“Be warned, he believes it necessary to sacrifice a writer from time to time pour l’encouragement des autres.”
I tilted my head. “. . . To encourage the others?”
“Exactemente, mon ami,” Leonard replied. “You speak French?”
“Just what I learned in high school,” I said. I looked at him as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “What if you want to do more than just survive?”
Leonard shook his head. “Ambitious. Good for you. Get over it. The rest of the writers will hate you and they’ll offer you up to Potts as a sacrificial lamb.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
“Be careful or be gone,” Leonard said. He grinned. “Not a bad line. I’m going to hang on to that.” Then his eyes flashed and he abruptly stood and walked away. Actually, he fled. I turned back to see a man walking from the main hallway toward my cubicle. He was tall, 6 feet 3 or so, muscular and bald. He wore a black silk T-shirt beneath a silver jacket. His gaze was on me.
“Are you Jacobson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come with me.”
I guessed he was Potts. “Yes, sir,” I said. I stood and followed him. He walked to a corner office at the end of a long row of cubicles. The walls of his office were decorated with framed print ads. He sat down behind a large glass desk, eyeing me grimly. “Shut the door.”
“Yes, sir.” I pulled the door shut.
“You go by Joe or Joseph?”
“Joseph or J.J., sir.”
“Sit down, Joseph.”
I sat.
“Let’s be clear on something. You’re here by my approval but not my choice. Timothy Ishmael convinced me that we had to have you. But that only got you through my door and that door swings both ways. If I don’t like what I see, you’ll see the backside of that door. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know what lame advice Leonard was imparting, but do yourself a favor and disregard it. The man’s on vocational life support.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“What’s with all the, ‘yes, sirs’? This isn’t the military.”
“Sorry. My father’s a veteran. It’s habit.”
A barely distinguishable smile crossed his lips. “I see. Mine too. What branch?”
“Navy. He served in Vietnam as a pilot. He was in the Gulf.”
There was a single knock on the office door. Then the door opened and a woman minced into the room with obvious familiarity. Potts lit up when he saw her. “Do you have time for lunch?” she asked.
The woman was stunningly beautiful, tall, even without the 3-inch heels she wore. She had auburn hair that fell to her shoulders. She realized they weren’t alone. “Who is this?”
“New guy,” Potts said dismissively.
“Hello, new guy,” she said.
“Hi,” I said.
She looked back at Potts. “Does new guy have a name?”
“Joseph,” he said. “Or T.J.”
“J.J.,” I said. “Shall I go?”
“Get out of here,” he said. “Have Kim show you around. We’ve got a staff meeting at one. Be there.”
I stood. “Okay. Thank you. And nice to meet you,” I said to the woman.
She looked me over and smiled. “Ditto.”
I walked out of the office, stopping at Kim’s desk which was right outside Pott’s office. She was typing at her computer and glanced up at me. “May I help you?”