LITMIR.BIZ

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either. They hated the ideas we gave them.”

      Lakshmi shook her head. “But obviously they didn’t hate you. They want to give you another chance.”

      “Yeah, not sure why they want that, actually.”

      “Angie, you really don’t know how good you are, do you?” Lakshmi laughed. “Actually, that’s one of the charming things about you. You’re about the only person I’ve met in this business who isn’t always tooting their own horn. But you’re sharp. Those ideas you had on Spreckels Cereal and New Freedom tampons, they were great. And the way you handle clients is terrific. But your light is shining in a barrel right now. I hope Lucy’s fine, but really, you’re lucky she’s gone. I’m sure she had you in her sights, right after Kimberley.”

      I wanted to bask in her compliments, but the last two sentences had me confused. “What do you mean, had me in her sights?”

      Lakshmi wiped a dab of foam from her upper lip. “Lucy had it in for Kimberley. She was trying to get her fired, quietly, of course.”

      “Why?”

      Lakshmi looked around, probably to make sure there were no other HFB employees lurking nearby. “Well, depending on which gossip you listen to, either Kimberley was trying to usurp Lucy and take credit for work she didn’t do, or Lucy was an impossible manager who wouldn’t let Kimberley sharpen a pencil without sending her a memo about it and was trying to fire Kimberley because she refused to knuckle under.”

      “Wow. Well, I could see both of those scenarios being true.” I started to tell Lakshmi about Kimberley deleting my Macabre Factor emails, but decided that I shouldn’t go spreading rumors unless I had proof.

      “Kimberley might deserve to be fired, and after all, Lucy is her supervisor, but you should still watch your back. I wouldn’t put it past Lucy to fire someone because she finds them threatening.”

      “Oh come on now, Lakshmi, who would find me threatening?”

      Lakshmi patted my hand. “I’m just telling you how I see it, Angie. I’m only going to be around for another couple of months, so I figure I’ve got nothing to lose by telling the truth. Dick is going to have to watch out for me. I might start correcting his vocabulary gaffes.”

      “What do you mean, are you leaving?”

      “I’m getting married.” Lakshmi said it in such a nonchalant tone I expected her to finish the sentence…and then I’m going to pick up my shirts at the dry cleaner.

      “I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend,” I said.

      “I didn’t, really. It’s an arranged thing, between our parents, mostly. He’s a postdoc at MIT, so I’ll be moving to Boston soon.”

      I didn’t know such things went on in the twenty-first century. I imagined a gift-wrapped Lakshmi being handed over to a bald man in his sixties. “Have you met the guy?” I asked.

      “Oh sure, we’ve met several times. I told my parents I had to approve of the man before I’d agree.”

      “I see,” I said. The man in my mind changed to a broad-shouldered hunk in bicycle shorts. “So you’re in love with him?”

      “Love comes later, Angie. It’s something that grows, from knowing a person, building a life together.” Lakshmi looked at her watch. “Oops, I’ve got to get back.” She swallowed the last of her latte and headed out.

      I sat for a while longer, pondering. I had dated guys before, one in college for over two years. My parents had loved Andy and hinted broadly about our getting married, but after graduation Andy wanted to be on Broadway, or at least Off-Broadway, and I wanted to see if I could make a go of it in San Francisco. We did the long distance thing for a while, but then Andy got a role in a play in which he and his costar appeared naked. By the second performance he was cheating on me. It felt silly to be angry when I hadn’t seen him in six months, so I just officially called it quits. Since then it had been one long dry spell, punctuated by brief showers, and now I had a hurricane on my hands.

      What should you trust, your heart or your head? Do you find a partner society considers appropriate and settle down to a life of TV reruns and potpies? Or chase down blatantly inappropriate, not to say sinister, men because they make you feel like a firecracker on the Fourth of July?

      At one o’clock I walked to the Azure Sea to meet Steve and the Toothpaste Kings. The foyer was subtly nautical, all dark wood and ship memorabilia in glass cases. The hostess, a young woman dressed in a decidedly non-nautical cashmere sweater set, led me back to our table. The building had once housed an exclusive men’s club and the dining room was the former swimming pool. The vaulted ceiling sported a gorgeous WPA-era mosaic of fishermen casting their nets into San Francisco Bay during the days when Fisherman’s Wharf was a working pier, not just a mecca for tourists and scammers.

      Steve had scored us an excellent table on a raised platform that ran along the side of the dining room, the “see and be seen” area. He was already sitting with the clients, Steve in the best seat, facing out into the crowd, with the two men on either side of him. I was sure Tweedledum and Tweedledee hadn’t noticed that Steve had taken the catbird seat. The Tweedle on my left, Stanford “Stan” Ruckheiser, stood up, catching his belly on the edge of the table, and pulled out my chair for me. My right hand was then enclosed in the clammy handshake of Jacob White, who I had secretly nicknamed “Jake the Snake” because he was long, sinewy, bald, and he talked like a rattlesnake, a breathy whisper with a sibilant “s.”

      “Sssso, Angie, Ssssteve tells us you have the best recommendations for what plays we might want to sssee tonight,” Jake hissed at me.

      “Yesss, that’sss right.” Steve looked right at Jake as he spoke. “Angie always knows what’s a go and what’s a missss.”

      I choked back a laugh. Steve had recently attended a conference called Neurolinguistic Programming for Salespeople, where they taught him to mirror the client’s mannerisms, accents, and speech patterns to create instant rapport. I wondered how long it was going to take Jake to catch on and ssstrike Steve across the face.

      “I hear Beach Blanket Babylon is fun,” Stan said.

      I groaned silently. Beach Blanket Babylon? I was about to take his question seriously and lay out an array of theater choices that was unrivaled on the West Coast, in my humble opinion. Molière at the American Conservatory Theater, Sam Shepard at Berkeley Rep, why, the Fringe Festival was going on right now! He could see twenty new plays a day for the next week! And instead he wanted a 30-year-old cabaret show whose big gimmick was a woman wearing a hat longer than a car with the entire skyline of San Francisco arrayed on it? Next he’d ask us to take him to Hooters on Fisherman’s Wharf.

      I must have betrayed my disgust, because Steve actually kicked me under the table. “Yes, Stan, Beach Blanket Babylon is fun!” he said cheerily. “We’d be happy to supply you with tickets. Just let me know how many you need.”

      Stan and Jake brightened at that news and we turned our attention to the menu. Our two guests from landlocked Fresno were suitably impressed by the variety of fish on offer, while I scoured the list for something vegetarian. I’m not a strict veggie, but I hate all fish. The smell and texture reminds me of something gone rotten. People are always telling me what I’m missing, so I periodically try a scallop or a bite of salmon, thinking that maybe I’ll change my mind, but it always tastes like flesh Jell-O to me. I decided on a Caesar salad. Steve, who is always watching his weight, ordered shrimp salad. Our two guests, mindful that lunch was on HFB’s tab, ordered appetizers and soft-shell crabs for Stan, lobster for Jake. I steeled myself for a long stinky lunch.

      Often our client lunches don’t involve any business talk at all. Although I’m sure HFB still takes a hefty tax write-off on them, their purpose is simply to oil the gears of commerce. This lunch appeared to be of that ilk, as the appetizers were consumed and Steve regaled our clients with hilarious stories of the zany citizens of San Francisco, such as the man who kept sixty-one dogs in his mansion in an upscale

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