34
My pen hits the hardwood floors of the agency for the third time in the last hour. I scoop it up quickly, hoping no one noticed. But before I’m upright again, my dad pauses his conversation with one of the potential affiliates we’re pitching ads to—scamming—today to glance over at me. He gives me this look that clearly says, What the hell is wrong with you?
What the hell is wrong with me?
For starters, I’m wired up with Sheldon and Sharp listening in. Then there’s that whole Plan B thing looming over my head. Nothing to be nervous about. I check my phone for new messages, hoping the lack of drama outside this building will calm my nerves, but I end up rereading Agent Sheldon’s text from more than an hour ago.
SHELDON: today’s the day. Let’s get this done fast. In and out, got it?
Yeah, that’s not helping my nerves at all. Besides, fast isn’t gonna win me any confessions. If I push too hard for information, my dad, the expert conman, will see right through it, and his guard will be permanently up.
“Is there a full-page option?” a woman asks me.
The question forces me to refocus, to remind myself that at this moment, I’m no longer Ellie Ames, and I’m also no longer playing the British Broadway performer. Today I’m an administrative assistant for the Johnson Whitman Agency. I’ve aged up quite a bit and have the charcoal Armani pantsuit to prove it. I scan the table of materials in front of me and quickly realize that full-page ads aren’t an option, which seems like a huge mistake. The actual brochure design is of no importance to my dad or anyone working this con. “No, there isn’t actually an option for a full—”
“That’s ridiculous. What if I’m willing to double half-page prices?”
Based on the pinched look on this woman’s face, it’s clear she will likely take her checkbook and go if I simply remit my original answer. Experience with investment cons has taught me how to recognize a Gold Star, my family’s code name for a subject who wants, more than anything else, to feel extra special about their willingness to invest their money. Since no one seems to have planned for Gold Stars in attendance today, I have to improvise a bit, quickly coming up with a subject-specific tactic. “Research conducted by our advertising agency has shown that full-page ads are skipped over in brochures and program materials nine times out of ten.”
The woman’s eyes narrow, but she says nothing, allowing me to continue.
“What we recommend is sharing a half page with crucial program material such as our audition prep tips. There’s also one other option.” I stop abruptly, leaving a dramatic pause hanging in the air. I’ve managed to grab my dad’s attention yet again, and he’s now moving closer to the table. Beside me, both Bruno and Uncle Milky are listening in.
“What?” the woman demands. “What’s the other option?”
I look her over, pretending to deliberate something important. “Did you say what type of business you’re promoting?”
“I’m a stylist,” she says, then abruptly adds, as if she’d expected me to ask, “Clothing, hair, and makeup if my full team is involved. Fashion is my personal specialty.”
“Huh.” I hesitate, leaving her hanging again. “That could work out really well…”
“A full-page ad for my company?” she asks, looking confused.
“Think you could write an advice piece? Maybe something in the realm of dressing for musical theater auditions?”
“How to dress for your dream role,” Milky suggests, chiming in from my right side.
“Audition styles 101,” I say.
Dad is beside the woman now, offering his own ideas. “Bow-to-toe Broadway styles.”
“That has potential.” I glance at Dad, who has surely picked up on the Gold Star vibe by now. He offers me a tiny nod of approval. I turn back to the woman. “Of course, if that isn’t what you had in mind, I’m sure we can find someone else to fill the slot. I’ve been debating reaching out to a few editorial friends over at Vogue. I interned there right after graduation. Good times.”
“No, no,” she argues, the skepticism falling from her face. “I minored in journalism, so this is well within my skill set. Vogue isn’t relatable enough; those writers are out of touch when it comes to everyday fashion, like audition wear.”
“I agree completely.” I flash her a grin. “If we like your piece, then we’ll give it good placement in the brochure and include your half-page business ad below the advice piece.”
The woman looks momentarily ecstatic, and then a flicker of worry sneaks into her features. Her eyes sweep over the table materials. “Which pamphlet has information for this option?”
“None of them.” Dad rests a hand on the lady’s shoulder and lowers his voice. “This agency is committed to offering every resource possible to our clients, but only high-quality information gets past my desk and into the program material. Writing a feature isn’t something we can put a dollar amount on.”
“Right,” the woman says quickly. “I get that.”
“So you are interested in this affiliate ad package?” Dad prompts. “And you’ll keep it between us for the time being?”
For that lengthy moment between Dad sending the runner on third sliding into home and the stylist woman’s response, it feels like old times again. That brilliant moment when we know we’ve sealed the deal, usually before the subject even verbally confirms this. The yes is there hovering in the air. Thank God Sheldon and Sharp can hear only what’s happening around me and not inside my head. I’d be out of an informant job faster than—
Informant. For the FBI.
Turning in my dad to save my own ass and hopefully free my mother.
The bubbling nostalgia twists and tumbles in my gut, making me feel sick to my stomach. What if I can’t do this? I’d asked Sheldon that same question, but I had meant more along the lines of: What if my dad sees right through me and won’t speak a word about Jojo or anything valuable? Now I’m wondering if I’m still vulnerable to my dad’s infectious influence? What if loyalty to my family rises above self-preservation? And I think it could. If it weren’t for my mom’s freedom, balancing out the other side of the scale. It’s her and me in exchange for him, I remind myself.
Another business owner wanting to advertise in the Johnson Whitman Agency material bombards me with questions, and I’m stuck playing this part for the remainder of the informational lunch.
Later, while my dad is walking the last potential affiliate out the door, I get a text from Agent Sharp.
SHARP: Sheldon is antsy. Don’t let her get to you. Take your time, don’t force it. Use those great instincts of yours.
A tiny hint of relief washes over me, knowing that I at least have one person rooting for me, but then I scroll back and read an earlier missed text from Sheldon, and the relief is short-lived.
SHELDON: Get your dad alone and get him talking asap
I glance at my dad, who is watching the elevator doors close on the last affiliate. What would he say if I told him I’d been working for the FBI that day in the bank when my mother was taken away? What would he say if he knew I’m doing the same thing now?
“Guess who’s getting that employee of the month plaque?” He flashes me a grin that I recognize as the kind reserved only for his real family. “Didn’t know I raised such an overachiever. No full-page-ad option? Easy fix. Double the half-page ad price. But no, not good enough for my little girl. She doesn’t quit until that woman writes a check for four times the cost of the half-page ad.”
I hate how much I enjoy his praise, his approval. Especially considering the fact that I’d been so sure I’d moved past caring what he thinks. “I learned all my tricks from my father. I’ll let him know you were impressed.”
My dad laughs. It’s the most honest sound I’ve heard from him over the last couple of weeks. He looks at me and then nods toward the elevator. “Come on, let’s blow off these idiots, leave them to clean up the place. We’ll go somewhere fun.”
And there it is. Handed to me on a platter, didn’t even have to work for it. That’s because the hardest part is in front of me, maybe even out of my reach.
A minute later, after I’ve got my coat on, Sheldon sends me a new text.
SHELDON: here’s your chance. Take it.
Mentally I fill in the implied or else…Plan B.