The Turning (11 page)

“What if God is waiting for us to get out there and speak?” Alisha asked.

“I shouldn’t be sitting here,” Jenny agreed. “There’s something he wants me to
do
.”

Richard Linn opened his mouth, but then shut it and remained silent.

Ruth said, “Please tell us what you were thinking, I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“Richard. I, well …” He shot his daughter a worried look.

“Tell us, Daddy.”

“I’ve spent too many hours doing just that. Telling, rather than listening.”

Jenny smiled for the first time that day. Her mother sniffed softly as Jenny took hold of her father’s hand. “Go ahead.”

“It seems to me that unless you know where God wants you to go and what he wants you to say, you’re just running on a wheel of your own making.”

“Like Fred,” Jenny said.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“My hamster when I was little.”

Alisha harrumphed a laugh. “Girl, you haven’t stopped being little yet.”

Jenny seemed to like that. “Little-er, then.”

Richard said, “My daughter would watch that little beast for hours.”

“I liked to watch him run. His legs moved so fast they were a blur.”

“And he still didn’t go anywhere,” Ruth said. She pointed to the Book in her lap. “The disciples were told to go to Jerusalem and wait. They gathered and they prayed. How hard it must have been for them to sit there, taking no action, while outside the world wanted them all dead.”

Aaron startled them by speaking for the first time that day. “There should be twelve of you.”

Alisha looked at him. “I been thinking the exact same thing.”

“It’s bothered me ever since we watched the Times Square mob,” Aaron went on. “Twelve were called. But only you five showed up. Out there are seven more that God chose, but who didn’t act.”

“And now we’re not being allowed to do just that,” John groused. “Act.”

Heather shook her head. “Climb down off your wheel, John. Ruth is right.”

“I know she is. But it doesn’t make it easy.”

“Welcome to the upper room, friends.” Ruth reached out both hands. “Now let’s join in prayer and ask God to show us the way.”

LOS ANGELES

When the jet landed at John Wayne airport in Burbank, two limos were pulled up on the tarmac. As the jet rolled over and the engines whined down, the drivers emerged and straightened their jackets. The pilot lowered the stairs and saluted his departing passengers. Trent followed Edlyn Mundrose down the steps and watched as she slipped into the first limo. The driver collected her bags from the pilot, climbed in behind the wheel, and took off, leaving Gayle to travel with him. Edlyn never once looked their way.

The limo was an anonymous black Lincoln. Nice enough, but after a Bentley to the airport and a private Gulfstream ride across the continent, he would have at least expected to be met by a Caddy.

Gayle fielded three phone calls as they threaded their way along the LA concrete spaghetti. She spoke quietly with her hand cradling the receiver, and Trent felt no need to listen in. His own phone rang as they exited the I-405. The detective service he had hired confirmed that his requested files would be ready in an hour. As he closed his phone, Gayle said, “I suggest we shift our reservations to the Bel Air, since that’s where Mr. Denning said we should meet. It will make a statement.”

“Only if Stone Denning bothers to check.”

“His people will make it their business to know.”

Trent nodded as if it all made sense. Welcome to Hollywood.

He thought of other young men and women who had come before him, granted an instant in the corporate spotlight. The limos, the thousand-dollar hotel rooms, the access to the throne room. He wondered at the difference between those who had made it and those who were not even memories. He knew that most people granted this chance failed. He hoped he had what it took. He knew some of them mistakenly assumed that a glimpse of the high life meant they could claim it as their own. They padded their expense accounts with all the tight pleasures of that kind of living. He knew they flamed hard and went down harder. He also knew there was no chance of that happening to him. He had few friends, and none of them so close as to turn needy if and when success struck. He allowed himself pleasures on a carefully distilled basis. He had fought too hard to get here. He wanted it too much.

But that still did not guarantee anything.

They turned onto Wilshire Boulevard, and Trent spent a few moments gaping at the tall palm trees and the polished buildings and the cinematic billboards. A pair of LA honeys waited by the Rodeo Drive traffic light, skintight jeans and the oversized sunglasses and the fancy shopping bags all part of the Hollywood dream. Their heads swiveled as they watched his limo pass. Trent smiled briefly at the thought that
they
were watching
him
. Then he turned away, consumed by his hunger to climb the ladder, rung after precious rung.

He would do anything to make it happen. Whatever it took.

Their destination was a chrome-and-glass structure on Wilshire Boulevard across from the Ferrari dealership. Trent watched an F500 emerge from the lot, roar through the next light, and smoke two black strips down a full block and a half. When he and Gayle climbed from the limo, the air tasted of burned rubber.

The sign by the building’s front door announced simply: Mundrose. They were greeted by a cheerful staffer. Trent assumed she had been alerted by one of Gayle’s phone calls. The woman led them straight to the executive elevator. The building had only five floors, and still the directors had their own lift.

They were shown to seats in the penthouse reception area. The atmosphere sparked with the tense energy of making things happen, California-style. Trent waited for the staffer to depart, then asked, “Is there anything you can tell me about what I should expect?”

Gayle was elegantly beautiful in a discreet pearl grey dress and matching pumps. “You have researched Colin Tomlin?”

Tomlin was the head of the LA advertising group and the man they were scheduled to meet. “Of course.”

She nodded, as though his response confirmed something she needed to know. She would not waste her time with someone who did not bother to prepare. “Barry acquired this management agency four years ago. He added to this an advertising firm connected to every major network and studio. Then he acquired a marketing and promotion group. He paid over the odds for all three.”

“But their combined value is now much more,” Trent guessed.

“Correct. The former head of the agency is now president of the LA group. He makes more than the division chief, who was at the meeting in New York.” She eyed him coolly. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

“The guy on the other side of those doors thinks he should have been at the meeting.”

“Tomlin considers himself the head of his own division. He thinks the director in New York should be answering to him. Selling his group to Barry Mundrose made Colin Tomlin a very rich man. But he wants more. He wants access to the inner sanctum.”

“So to get a call from New York telling him to meet with me …”

Gayle nodded to the secretary who was headed their way. “He is not your friend. If he can knife his boss by stabbing you, he will do so.”

Colin Tomlin neither rose nor offered his hand as together they crossed the broad expanse of his office. Trent suspected the man had positioned his desk so as to make the visitor feel both uncertain and under inspection, as though approaching a throne. Trent’s research had described an incredibly vain man, born to money and title in England, product of Eton and Cambridge. Tomlin had begun his career acting in British television, but when it faltered he reinvented himself as a representative of other actors. This took him to Hollywood, where he showed a remarkable talent for using his urbane British polish to hide the unseen blade.

Tomlin was strikingly handsome for a man in his late sixties. Impeccably groomed in a striped shirt with white collar and cuffs, gold Cartier cuff links and matching watch, woven silk tie, Palm Springs tan. He watched them with cold lizard eyes as they seated themselves.

Trent knew the man expected some form of the corporate duel. As in, Tomlin’s boss had ordered this. So do what the head office demanded. And Trent knew before Gayle had spoken that it would get him nowhere with this man.

So Trent’s first words were, “Tell me what you want.”

Tomlin had the upper-class Brit’s ability to dress every word with scorn. “Pardon me?”

“I don’t owe your division manager anything. When I made my pitch to the board, he didn’t utter a word. What he said behind my back is anyone’s guess, and quite frankly, I don’t care.”

The man even blinked slowly. “This signifies precisely what to me?”

“The most vital component of this entire plan is advertising. Success of my project is dependent upon getting it right. My future is in your hands.”

Tomlin steepled his fingers. “Go on.”

“I don’t even know enough to tell you what I need. I have some ideas. But they are unrefined. Incomplete. Just like me.”

Tomlin’s languid gaze took in Trent’s dress. “You took the words straight from my lips.”

He took no offense. Why should he? Edlyn’s remarks had been far worse. Instead, he found himself liking the man. No doubt a dangerous sentiment, but true nonetheless. “I have Barry Mundrose’s ear. For how long, I couldn’t say. But today, that’s how it is. So I’m asking. What would it take for you to become my ally?”

Colin Tomlin took his time. Trent could almost see the mental gears grinding. Trying to see whether it was even worth making the effort to change his mind about this one. Then the LA director’s gaze swiveled to Gayle. He started to speak. Then thought better of it. Instead, he turned his chair around to face the window and the pale LA sky. “There is one item.”

“Name it.”

“The entertainment industry’s fastest growing component is electronic gaming. Which also happens to be our advertising division’s weakest segment. I have identified an ideal target. They are open to being acquired. The price they are asking is acceptable.”

Trent finished for him, “Your New York director turned you down.”

“He really is becoming rather tiresome. He says there are two perfectly valid reasons for refusing my proposal. First, the company is based in Austin, not LA. Austin is where they should be, as it’s home to a growing proportion of the e-games industry. And second, they have a division that produces games of their own. Quite good ones, actually. But that takes us out of the advertising and promotion business into production. And Mundrose already has an e-games company. The fact that they have not produced a hit in almost four years has somehow managed to escape the man’s attention.”

Trent rose from his chair and started pacing. He had always thought better on his feet. He spun several ideas through tight mental trajectories, until he found one that might just work. Maybe.

Trent had no idea how long it was before he returned to his seat. Colin Tomlin was still studying the blank LA canvas beyond his window when Trent asked, “What if I said I needed an e-game production company that could drop everything they were working on and focus their entire corporate attention on my project?”

Tomlin glanced at him. “Is that actually the case?”

“Two hours from now, I meet with Stone Denning,” Trent replied. “If he accepts my proposal, then everything moves into high gear.”

“Including a new electronic game.”

“Right. We’d need a preliminary concept for an advertising blitz that I can take over and show him.”

Tomlin mulled that over. “You require visuals for a new ad campaign in two hours?”

“Yes. Is that even possible?”

“Do you have an idea of what you want?”

“Rough at best,” Trent said. “I’m more than open for your input. I’m desperate.”

“Not a bad attitude to take, really.” Colin Tomlin turned back to his window. “And the actual product?”

“Ready to release with Denning’s new film project.”

“Which is when, precisely?”

Gayle replied, “Labor Day.”

“A new electronic game based around a film in production, from scratch to completion in less than four months.” Tomlin did not smile. But the edges of his eyes tightened. “I would rather expect that to require a full team’s best efforts.”

“The advertising blitz should start day after tomorrow, and build all summer long,” Trent said. “The group in charge would need to coordinate everything toward a full nuclear explosion the first week in September.”

“Including a marketing campaign for this new e-game.”

“E-game, print, radio, television, film, the works. All tied to the same theme.”

“That would tax us rather a lot,” Tomlin said. “Of course, New York will insist upon being in charge.”

“What if you ran everything from here?” Trent replied.

Tomlin’s lizard gaze slid back to Trent. “My so-called superior would never agree to such a thing.”

Trent said to Gayle, “Make the call.”

Start to finish, the entire process took less than fifteen minutes. Gayle placed the call to Barry Mundrose’s second secretary. She spoke softly, hung up. While they waited, Tomlin went back to observing the empty sky. Trent paced. There was no way his body could hold all the tension. He had to force it out through motion. Gayle took her phone over to the sofa in the corner and talked quietly, then passed the phone to him.

Trent told Barry everything. The need, the urgency, Colin’s initial hostility. He then related his solution. And the objections that had been raised by Tomlin’s superior. And would surely be raised again. And the risk Trent faced in bringing down this NY director’s wrath. But how he saw no alternative than to make a powerful enemy.

When he was done, Mundrose said, “Ask Gayle if the Austin proposal reached my desk.”

When he passed on the query, Gayle replied, “Not that I am aware.”

Mundrose accepted the news in silence. Trent kept pacing.

Ninety seconds later, Mundrose said, “I’ll take care of the people at this end. Give me Tomlin.”