Shades of Fortune (19 page)

“Of course it was all my money,” Granny Flo says to her interviewer. “I didn't know it then, but it was. They've always been after my money, all of them. They still are.”

8

Mimi and Mark Segal are sitting on the sofa in her office with the retouched photos of the Mireille Couple spread out on the coffee table in front of them. Mimi looks at one after another, and for several minutes neither says anything.

Finally, Mark says, “Do you notice something that's happened, Mimi, when we give the guy the scar? Something very interesting?”

“You tell me, Mark.”

“It not only gives the guy a kind of mysterious personal
history
, the thing you said you wanted. It does something else. It makes him incredibly—there's no other word for it—it makes him incredibly
sexy
. I mean, don't get me wrong, guys don't turn me on. But this guy is now
sexy!
It's raw, naked, basic, animal
sex
, Mimi. I've never seen anything like it!”

“You're right. It makes him look hard and tough—the kind of hard edge he didn't have before.”

“Hard, and tough, and mean—there's even a hint of
mean
sex there. I think this is going to turn women on, Mimi, turn 'em on in a way no ad campaign has ever turned women on before, I really do! Just to be sure, I brought a set of these prints home and showed 'em to my wife. She took one look and
shivered
, Mimi—shivered! She said, ‘My God, what a hunk!' but it was the shiver that I noticed. Which has given me an idea.”

“What's that?

“Since we're going to have to reshoot the first commercials anyway, if we decide to go with this, I thought, why not undress 'em both a little more? Put him in a pair of bikini briefs. Put her in a teeny little maillot—she's got a great body. What do you think?”

“You mean the Calvin Klein bit? The Obsession bit, the nude bodies all twisted around each other? The naked men and women posed around Greek columns?”

“Not exactly that, of course. Different, but the same idea. Something that would capitalize on the sexiness that we've found is already there. Then, when he kisses her, it could be, like—wow! It would be like watching sexual intercourse on your twenty-three-inch screen! Mothers would scream at their children, ‘Don't look!'”

Mimi thinks about this for a moment or two. Then she says, “No, I don't think so, Mark. And do you know why? First, because Calvin's already done it, and it would look as though we were copying him, no matter how different we managed to make it look. And second, because of taste. We've always been known for producing tasteful ads, and our customers are used to it, they like it, and I think they respect us for it. And don't forget, we'll be airing this commercial not just in New York and L.A. We'll be airing it in Salt Lake City, and Boise, and God knows the Bible Belt. But finally, I think it's because the scar makes him look sexy, yes, but just sexy
enough
. It's a case of less is more. I think we'd be overdoing it if we stripped them to their skivvies. The scar's enough. This is sexy, but it's also subtle.”

“Sex can be subtle?”

She laughs. “Oh, yes. I'm older than you, Mark, and I know that sex can be subtle—very subtle, and it's nice that way. You sleep better afterward.”

He scratches his red beard thoughtfully. “Well,” he says. “Maybe you're right.”

“I think I am in this case, Mark. I really think I am. I think we can achieve the same effect we want without the bulging crotch, if you see what I mean.” She glances at her watch. “But look—I've got to run. I've got a kind of important lunch date. Tell the art department they've done a terrific job. Tell them, ‘By George, I think we've got it! The man with the scar!' Get things in motion to reshoot the commercials. Get the best makeup man in town to do the scar. There used to be a man named Scott Cunningham, who specialized; I think he did the work for
Planet of the Apes
.”

“What about the print ads?”

“The TV spots are more important. Once we've got the scar finalized for TV, we can see what the art department can do with airbrushing to match it. If that won't work, we reshoot the print ads, too!”

“Well … okay.”

“You seem hesitant, Mark. What's wrong?”

“There's just one thing about this campaign that I hope you've thought of, Mimi.”

“What's that?”

“This is turning out to be a ground-breaking campaign,” he says, “now that we've got a man with a scar, and there's a certain amount of risk involved. We're going to be breaking a taboo.”

“Taboo? What sort of taboo?”

“For years, advertising has observed a number of unwritten taboos. Self-imposed restrictions on the industry. For a long time, for instance, it was an unwritten rule that you didn't show a woman in a cigarette ad. Then, back in the thirties, Chesterfield broke the rule with a famous ad that showed a woman saying ‘Blow some my way.' Until pretty recently, the same thing was true of liquor and beer advertising—you didn't show a woman with a glass in her hand, much less at her lips. For a long time you didn't use black people in ads—except in the black-oriented media. Now all that's changed, of course, but in this campaign we're taking on a new minority group: the physically disfigured, even the handicapped. It's pretty daring. I mean, even the Hathaway Shirt ads didn't show a man with an empty eye socket. This could backfire, Mimi. The scar could turn people off. That's the risk you're taking. I just hope you're aware of that.”

“You think it's a big risk, Mark?”

“It could be—a very big risk, Mimi. A very, very big risk.”

“But look: the whole idea of launching a perfume was a risk to begin with, wasn't it? Now we've taken the risk, we've got to take it all the way, don't we? So let's take it!” She jumps to her feet. “Oh, Mark,” she says, “now I really am excited! Scared, but excited! Will you do me one more favor?”

“What's that?”

“Kiss me on the shoulder. Right here,” she points.

“Kiss your shoulder?”

“It's for luck. I'm superstitious. This is going to be an important campaign, and I'm on my way to an important lunch. Whenever I'm about to start out on something important, I ask someone to kiss me on the left shoulder, for good luck. Would you mind?”

“Well,” he hesitates. Then carefully, almost gingerly, he places a kiss on the left shoulder of the President and Chief Executive Officer of the Miray Corporation.

“Thank you! That should do it!” she says. “That's usually all it takes.” Then she is off.

She has no sooner been seated at his table at the restaurant—sensing immediately that it has somehow all at once become
his
table, not hers, though her secretary made the reservation—than the captain appears carrying a telephone. “A Mr. Polakoff, sir, calling from Chicago,” he says.

Michael Horowitz picks up the receiver. “Polakoff?” he says. “How are you, buddy? Now, listen, kiddo, I've made you my last offer. No, I don't want to hear what your price is, and I don't want to hear what your lawyer has to say. I want you to listen to me very carefully, kiddo. Are you ready to listen to me? … Then stop talking. Do you know what I want that twenty-five-by-ninety piece
for?
I want it for a
fountain
, kiddo—a fountain and a waterfall. That's right—it's called
landscaping
, and it's a mere
detail
of landscaping. Icing on the cake. And I think my offer is very generous, kiddo, because stop and think about it. When my hotel goes up on three sides of your twenty-five-by-ninety-foot lot, what're you gonna have? A vacant lot that's not gonna be worth shit, that's what—a vacant lot surrounded by a high rise. Why, you won't even have a parking lot! No, I'm not going to let you think about it. My offer is final, got that? Tell you what. It's now”—he glances at his watch—“it's now twelve thirty-six. You've got till five o'clock to fax me your agreement to the deal. If I don't hear from you by five o'clock, the deal's off—over, kaput, finished, no more hondeling. Got that, kiddo? And I'm talking five o'clock
my
time, not five o'clock
your
time, and five o'clock my time is four o'clock your time. Clear? Okay, kiddo. Take it easy. Talk to you later.” He puts down the phone and smiles at Mimi. “I'll get my fountain,” he says. “I'll get my waterfall.” Then, “Well, where were we?”

“We really weren't anywhere,” she says sweetly. “You haven't even said hello.”

“Hi, kiddo,” he says, brushing his lips against her cheek. “You're looking great.”

“Thank you, Michael.” She had forgotten about his habit of calling everybody kiddo. She studies his face for a moment or two, remembering.

Whatever it was, years ago, she had given it a name. My Michael feeling, she had called it. It came when he looked at her a certain way, when shadows seemed to cross his eyes, and they became wide and intense and luminous. That look left her feeling suddenly helpless, trembling, unable to control her thoughts and words. It was almost like an adrenaline rush, but instead of a surge of power and energy she felt a surge of powerlessness and inevitability. Once upon a time, the effect of the Michael feeling had been riveting, overpowering, but now, all these years later, she is certain that she has outgrown it, is immune to it. It is part of the dead past.

“Something to drink?” he says.

“A glass of white wine.”

“Sounds good.” He snaps his fingers for a waiter. “Two glasses of Chablis,” he says.

A great deal of ink, as they say, has been used up in the press to describe Michael Horowitz. He has been called debonair. He has been called devious. He has been called rosy-cheeked, ruthless, rapacious, the Romeo of real estate, the Lothario of land deals. He has been called a wolf in preppy's clothing, the baby-faced bandit of Manhattan. He has been called the last honest man in the development business. He has been called totally untrustworthy. He is famous for saying, when looking over the plans for a competitor's project, “I could build it twice as tall in half the time for half the money.” He has been called sly, feisty, scrappy, a tough fighter with street smarts. Diana Vreeland called him “
terribly
cute,” and no one was quite sure what she meant by that. Did she mean she found him terrible or adorable? Asked to amplify on that appraisal, Mrs. Vreeland, who is the modern equivalent of the Oracle at Delphi, said, “He's
dreadfully
attractive.” Then she added, “He's never
tired
.” Hmm.

Michael Horowitz has been called brash, bratty, brutal, and boyishly self-effacing. Within his organization, he is called “Mr. Wonderful.” Is there a hint of sarcasm there? Among his enemies, he is often referred to as Michael Horrorwitz. He has also been called New York's Most Eligible Bachelor, and it has been said that when his lips affix themselves to a woman's mouth she becomes powerless to resist offering him more of herself. It is said that he receives mash notes from movie stars he has never met, among them Farrah Fawcett. One thing is certain: he is the premier deal-maker in New York City, if not in the entire country, if not the world.

One thing that Mimi notices is that, if he has made a pact with the devil to get where he is, part of the arrangement was to endow him with perpetual youth. He looks hardly different from the eager young man she met when he was a student at the Columbia School of Business thirty years ago. He has the same slightly crooked smile, revealing perfect teeth, and when he smiles, as he is smiling at her now, there are three dimples, one at each corner of his mouth, and one in his chin. Pink spots of color still highlight his cheekbones. Though never particularly tall—five nine in his stockinged feet—his physique is still trim and wiry, his stomach enviably flat. He is often seen running in Central Park, and Mimi is sure that he still works out religiously with his weights and exercise machines. In fact, as rich as he's become, he probably has his own private gym. He looks like a man with a private gym. If one did not know that he was a famous real-estate developer, one might take him for a ski instructor.

He still has the odd little habit of thrusting out his lower jaw just before he speaks and, simultaneously, tossing back a stray forelock of sandy hair that always seems about to fall across his eyes. It is a kind of personal tic. He does this now. “So,” he says, “to what do I owe this singular pleasure? It's been a long time between drinks, kiddo.”

“I'll get right to the point,” she says. “I want to know why you're buying so much Miray stock.”

He smiles again. “So you've noticed that? Well, for one thing, I happen to think you run a damn good company. For another, I hear that you're about to come out with a hot new product.”

“Where did you hear that, Michael? Nothing's been announced.”

“Listen,” he says, “this is a small town. Word gets around. New York is a village. Only about two hundred people live here, and we both know them all. Remember how they used to talk about New York's Four Hundred? That was a hundred years ago, when New York was a lot smaller than it is today. Today, New York may be bigger, but it's also gotten smaller. Today, there are only about two hundred people who count in this town.”

“Who are these two hundred people, Michael?”

“Well, kiddo, you're one, and I'm another, and that leaves about a hundred and ninety-eight others.” He shrugs. “You want, I could make up a list.”

“It would be helpful if I knew who's been leaking information about my company.”

“You're denying you've got a hot new product in the works?”

“Not denying—nor confirming.”

“Well, let's just say I heard it from one person or another—one of those two hundred people we both know. Hell, I don't even remember who it was that told me. A new perfume, I think they said it was.”