had ever been at a business luncheon in his life. Usually he had a single cocktail or a glass of white wine; he had seen too many good New York admen drown themselves slowly in those dark places just off Madison Avenue, talking to their friends about campaigns they would never mount . . . or, if they became drunk enough, to the barmen in those places about novels which they would assuredly never write.
It was a strange occasion, half victory celebration, half wake. Rob had greeted their idea of a final Sharp Cereal Professor ad with tempered enthusiasm, saying that he could knock it a mile . . . always assuming he was given the chance. That was the wake half. Without the approval of old man Sharp and his fabled kid, the greatest spot in the world would do them no good. They would all be out on their asses.
Under the circumstances, Vic supposed it was all-right to get loaded.
Now, as the main rush of the restaurant’s lunchtime clientele came in, the three of them sat in their shirtsleeves at a corner booth, the remains of their burgers on waxed paper, beer bottles scattered around the table, the ashtray overflowing. Vic was reminded of the day he and Roger had sat in the Yellow Sub back in Portland, discussing this little safari. Back when everything that had been wrong had been wrong with the business. Incredibly, he felt a wave of nostalgia for that day and wondered what Tad and Donna were doing. Going to call them tonight, he thought. If I can stay sober enough to remember, that is.
“So what now?” Rob asked. “You hanging out in Boston or going on to New York? I can get you guys tickets to the Boston-Kansas City series, if you want them. Might cheer you up to watch George Brett knock a few holes in the left-field wall.”
Vic looked at Roger, who shrugged and said, “On to New York, I guess. Thanks are in order, Rob, but I don’t think either of us are in the mood for baseball.”
“There’s nothing more we can do here,” Vic agreed. “We had a lot of time scheduled on this trip for brainstorming, but I guess we’re all agreed to go with the final spot idea.”
“There’s still plenty of rough edges,” Rob said. “Don’t get too proud.”
“We can mill off the rough edges,” Roger said. “One day with the marketing people ought to do it, I think. You agree, Vic?”
“It might take two,” Vic said. “Still, there’s no reason why we can’t tie things up a lot earlier than we’d expected.”
“Then what?”
Vic grinned bleakly. “Then we call old man Sharp and make an appointment to see him. I imagine we’ll end up going straight on to Cleveland from New York. The Magical Mystery Tour.”
“See Cleveland and die,” Roger said gloomily, and poured the remainder of his beer into his glass. “I just can’t wait to see that old fart.”
“Don’t forget the young fart,” Vic said, grinning a little.
“How could I forget that little prick?” Roger replied. “Gentlemen, I propose another round.”
Rob looked at his watch. “I really ought to—”
“One last round,” Roger insisted. “Auld Lang Syne, if you want.”
Rob shrugged. “Okay. But I still got a business to run, don’t forget that. Although without Sharp Cereals, there’s going to be space for a lot of long lunches.” He raised his glass in the air and waggled it until a waiter saw him and nodded back.
“Tell me what you really think,” Vic said to Rob. “No bullshit. You think it’s a bust?”
Rob looked at him, seemed about to speak, then shook his head.
Roger said, “No, go ahead. We all set out to sea in the same pea-green boat. Or Red Razberry Zingers carton, or whatever. You think it’s no go, don’t you?”
“I don’t think there’s a chance in hell,” Rob said. “You’ll work up a good presentation—you always do. You’ll get your background work done in New York, and I have a feeling that everything the market-research boys can tell you on such short notice is all going to be in your favor. And Yancey Harrington. . . . I think hell emote his fucking heart out. His big deathbed scene. He’ll be so good he’ll make Bette Davis in Dark Victory look like Ali MacGraw in Love Story.”
“Oh, but it’s not like that at all—” Roger began.
Rob shrugged. “Yeah, maybe that’s a little unfair. Okay. Call it his curtain call, then. Whatever you want