LITMIR.BIZ

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Wally talking on the radio.

      “It would have been called Sixty Below, a comedy about the lives and loves of the people in Arctic Luck,” said Jeffrey.

      “Would. Note the word would,” he continued. “I never did get to Arctic Luck, strike one. I can’t take pictures of anything in the blizzard, strike two. And I can’t get to the pitch meeting tomorrow, strike three.”

      “Can’t you pitch it by phone?” asked Wally as the door swung shut behind the interpreter. The pilot headed for the hangar.

      “Pitch what?” asked Jeffrey. “I’ve never even seen the town. And, no, it’s not something you do by phone. I need pictures, drawings, storyboards.”

      “Of Arctic Luck.”

      “No. Of San Diego. Of course of Arctic Luck.”

      Wally glanced at the wall of the office.

      Jordan followed his gaze to the collage on the bulletin board. Sure enough, there were pictures of Arctic Luck, along with every other community in interior Alaska.

      “If…uh…somebody else went to the meeting, with pictures and diagrams, could you tell them what to say?”

      Wally was offering to go to L.A.? Was he crazy?

      “Won’t work,” said Jeffrey.

      “Why not?”

      “They won’t take the pitch from anybody but me.”

      Jordan strolled into the reception area and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to figure out what Wally was thinking. Sure, he could take a four-wheel drive into Anchorage. The jumbo jets were still taking off near the coast. But, what the heck did Wally think he could do in L.A.?

      “What if it was you?” asked Wally.

      Jordan waved his hands and shook his head frantically. Making promises you couldn’t keep was definitely against the Department of Tourism’s wallet-card advice.

      “You’re sending a plane?” came Jeffrey’s hopeful voice.

      “No. I’m sending Jordan.”

      “Jordan?”

      Jordan?

      “My boss. The guy who looks just like you.”

      “Jordan’s flying up here?”

      Jordan’s not flying anywhere.

      “Nope. We send Jordan to L.A.”

      “What?” Jordan’s sharp exclamation matched Jeffrey’s.

      “Holy cow,” said Wally. “Even your voices sound the same.”

      “I’m not going to L.A.,” said Jordan, moving toward the radio.

      “That’s ridiculous,” said Jeffrey.

      “He looks just like you,” said Wally into the microphone. He pointed to the graph on the wall showing the customer satisfaction ratings.

      The static crackled on the radio. “It’s not—”

      “He does,” came Cyd’s voice in the background.

      Jordan’s eyes narrowed.

      “Put your money where your mouth is,” Wally said to Jordan. “If you hurry, you’ll be back in time for your birthday.”

      Jordan started to protest, but he quickly realized he didn’t need to say a thing. Jeffrey would put a stop to this. Jordan could just stand here and pretend to go along for the sake of customer satisfaction. He’d be putting his money where his mouth was, without actually having to pay up. Perfect.

      “Sure,” said Jordan easily, enjoying the role of customer service white knight. “Anything for customer satisfaction.”

      “We give him a haircut,” said Wally into the mike, with a thumbs-up to Jordan. “You tell him exactly what to say. He goes to the meeting, then flies back home.”

      “Never in a million years,” said Jeffrey.

      “You got a better idea?” asked Wally.

      “Fly up here and get me,” said Jeffrey.

      “No can do. Tell me, what’s the worst that would happen if Jordan tried and failed?”

      “The series is dumped, and my career is ruined.”

      “What will happen if you don’t make the meeting?”

      “The series gets dumped, and my career is ruined.”

      “What are the odds of success?”

      “Ten percent.”

      “That’s ten percent better than we’ve got going for us now.” Wally pointed to another bullet point on the department’s brochure: Take the customer’s problem on as your own.

      Now Wally decided to become Mr. Customer Service Guru. Jordan waited for Jeffrey’s vehement dismissal of the whole idea. Jordan in L.A. trying to pretend he was some hot damn television executive? As if.

      “We have pictures of Arctic Luck,” said Wally into the silent radio.

      “Good ones?” asked Jeffrey.

      “Great ones,” said Wally.

      There was a long silence. Jordan blinked in confusion. Where was the supercilious, unreasonable man from yesterday? He should be coming back with an angry retort about fixing the weather, telling Wally what a ridiculous, unworkable—

      “First thing he needs to know is the org chart,” said Jeffrey.

      Jordan stumbled a step back, his eyes widening.

      “There’s a copy of last year’s annual report in the right-hand, top drawer of the desk in my condo. Keys to the condo are in my coat pocket.”

      2

      THE FIRST PERSON Jordan met in L.A. was Jeffrey’s friend and former co-worker, Rob Emery. Nice guy. A whole lot nicer than Jeffrey seemed, in fact.

      Jeffrey had explained the impersonation to Rob, and Rob had offered to help in any way he could.

      They’d stayed up all night reviewing the basic makeup of Argonaut Studios and the delivery of a presentation for the television series Jeffrey had planned.

      Jordan didn’t get any sleep, but by morning he was armed with sketches, descriptions of scenes, outlines of the series characters and pictures of Arctic Luck for the location—all in living color. Rob, now a documentary filmmaker, definitely seemed to know what he was doing, and Jordan felt confident he could describe Jeffrey’s television series proposal to the Board members.

      In fact, he thought it would be a very funny show. Stereotypical Alaska stuff, of course, but exactly what residents of the lower forty-eight would expect in a comedy series from the north.

      The grizzly bear sequence in episode two was preposterous. The bears were still in their dens at Easter, and no one could get that close without having their head taken off. But, if the audience was willing to suspend their disbelief, he could see the humor.

      He straightened the stack of packages that were ready to be handed out to the Board members. Jeffrey’s efficient secretary, Bonnie Greenbough, had copied and stapled them together over the past hour.

      She seemed delighted to have Jeffrey back. She’d probably be even more delighted when the real Jeffrey arrived and didn’t brush off her friendly overtures with excuses about being busy. She seemed like a perfectly nice woman, and Jordan felt guilty avoiding conversations with her.

      But he had to keep his head down and his mouth shut, and try not to make any mistakes. There were more people on one floor of the Argonaut office building than in the entire town of

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