A Winter Dream - By Richard Paul Evans Page 0,42

at LB?”

“Like you said, Potts likes to make human sacrifices.”

“Back off, Lenny,” Bryce said. “He’s one of us now.”

The way he said that sounded ominous. “One of us?” I asked.

“The outcasts. The Leo Burnett untouchables.”

I glanced over at Charlene. She nodded sadly.

“Welcome to the eastern front,” Bryce said. “You had to do something to get sent here. Offend a client. Put the wrong discount on a coupon. Heck, use the wrong deodorant. Usually it’s nothing skill-related or they’d just fire you. Instead they send you here and hope you’ll quit.”

Charlene said, “There are no secrets in Siberia, Joseph. So what did you do?”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I used to be Mr. Ferrell’s personal assistant,” Charlene said.

“Mr. Ferrell?” I said. She looked surprised that I didn’t know who that was. “Mr. Ferrell is the CEO of Leo Burnett New York.”

“I should have known that,” I said. “So what did you do?”

“I made a derogatory comment about the CEO of Nintendo.”

“That’s it?”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Satou was standing behind me.”

“Oh,” I said.

I looked at Bryce. “And what’s your story?”

“Love triangle. Copy chief and I both had our eye on the same woman. She chose me, so I got demoted back to junior and sent here. Lost my desk and the girl. But it’s temporary, that rat won’t be there forever.”

“And the girl?”

“That’s permanent. She showed her colors.”

“We all know Lenny’s story,” Charlene said, making a face. “We’ve only heard it a few million times.”

“It bears repetition,” Leonard said.

Bryce nodded. “I’ll abridge it. Some upstart, ambitious whiz kid came to Chicago and pushed him out.”

Leonard’s eyes narrowed at me.

“Good fiction,” I said.

Leonard’s expression grew more intense.

“I had nothing to do with it,” I said.

“What’s your story?” Bryce asked.

“Do tell,” Leonard said fiercely.

I shook my head. “Like you, my offense wasn’t skill-related. My manager’s fiancée hit on me. He caught her on me at the company Christmas party. She blamed it on me of course.”

“Yikes,” Bryce said.

“That would do it,” Charlene said. “He couldn’t fire you because you’d win a wrongful termination suit, so he makes you want to quit.”

Leonard looked at me with a satisfied expression. “So you and Brandi mixed it up.”

“We didn’t mix anything,” I said. “The woman wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“I don’t blame her,” Charlene said. “You’re hotter than a New York summer brown-out.”

“That’s sexual harassment,” Bryce said.

“Sue me,” Charlene said.

“So how does it work here?” I asked.

“I’m the office manager,” Charlene said. “The main office sends me their copy requests, I deliver them to you, you write them and I send them back to a senior creative who checks your work then passes it on.”

“It’s humiliating,” Bryce said. “I was a senior creative.”

“If they disapprove,” Charlene continued, “they’ll send it back with suggestions. I already have a half-dozen assignments waiting for you.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where do I work?”

“Over there. You’re in the office next to Leonard.”

“Karma stinks, doesn’t it, J.J.?” Leonard said.

“Whatever, man,” I said. “Whatever.”

CHAPTER

Twenty-three

There are dreams that are meant to be shared and dreams to be kept hidden in our hearts. It’s sometimes difficult to know which is which.

Joseph Jacobson’s Diary

Even though Leonard continued to detest me, the L.B. Outasts, as Bryce called us (he inverted the K to look Siberian, or, at least, Russian), were a close-knit group. We ate lunch together every day—usually takeout from a very good Thai restaurant across Seventh Avenue. We also played cards. Charlene was big on Hearts, so we played almost every day.

Truthfully, the sink tank wasn’t bad duty. We left for home on time and rarely heard from the mother ship. I grew rather fond of Charlene and took to calling her Charbaby, which was politically incorrect on many levels, but made her smile every time.

One day we were playing cards at lunch when Charlene said, “What’s this?” She was rifling through a file I had carried into our lunchroom.

“Nothing. Just some things I’ve been playing around with. I don’t want to get rusty, so sometimes I create campaigns on my own.”

“Mind if I look through them?”

“Knock yourself out.”

She slowly flipped through the file, reading everything. A few times she burst out laughing. “These are terrific,” she said.

“They’re okay,” I replied.

“Okay? Some of these are brilliant. In my career I’ve seen scores of writers come and go, and I know talent. If I ever get back with Mr. Ferrell, I’m going to tell him about you.”

I just smiled at her. “I’m sure you will.”

She was bothered that I had taken what she said so lightly. “I’m not just saying that,