Coyote Ugly

Harry rolled over to the place he had found Chris on the next pillow two or three times during the night and craned forward. Nuzzling that soft spot on her neck., the one just below her hairline seemed to tickle her. She had, chortled? Was that what she did? He didn’t care. It had sounded wonderful. A crescendo above the refrain of her slow, deep breathing.

He pressed his face into a cold pillow. The rest of Chris wasn’t there either. In an instant, he was awake. Bathroom. Did she go to the bathroom? He looked at the black, square shape of the door’s opening. Nothing. Harry’s room was a pretty typical English hotel room. If you walked sideways, you could move on either side of the bed. If you put your suitcase right on the bed instead of on the floor at the foot of it, you could walk to the window and back. He turned the light on to scan every corner for Chris. She wasn’t here. You usually find coyote ugly in the morning, not in the middle of the night. Rather chew your arm off than risk waking the person next to you by moving. Was Chris ahead of a curve? Harry picked up the phone and called the operator. Still lost in the confusion you get when you wake up from a dream of one place only to find yourself in another, so you straddle two realities until something, the drip of a faucet, an air conditioner, a cat’s meow brings you to the place you are and the other place disappears. No matter how real it seemed at the time.

“Chris Adams, please.” ”Yes sir. It is three thirty sir.” ”Thanks. Would you connect me?” The line clicked over and the phone began to ring. On the second ring she picked up. ”Huh?” ”Everything all right?” ”Huh? Yeah. Yeah.” ”You left.”

“You looked pretty peaceful. I need my space.”

“What…” ”Tomorrow.” And she hung up.

Harry put the phone down and exhaled long and low. He rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling.

“What the fuck?” He swallowed. At least she wasn’t a sleepwalker, drifting up and down the hallways in her nightgown, or worse. They had come back to their floor, both were on three. Like post prom teenagers, they wrapped around each other. It was stupid and awkward and Harry didn’t care. He could not, would not let go of her. He fished his key out and reached to the door lock when she stepped back into the hall. ”I’ll be back.” She said in a low, hushed tone. Harry didn’t answer. He quietly turned the lock.

“Leave the door open.” She said.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. He had no idea what to do. He turned the overhead light off and turned on the small bedside lamp. Then he turned it off. In darkness, he felt vulnerable. He turned the light on again. He stared at the wall. The door pushed open. She walked in in bare feet. She was wearing a white cotton nightgown that surprised Harry as much as if she had walked in nude. He expected her to have brushed her teeth or combed her hair or any of the things he was too busy flicking lights on and off to have remembered to do but certainly not come in ready for…

What? ”Still dressed?” she asked.

“Wasn’t sure.”

“Of what?” There was a note of incredulousness in her voice and Harry had to move fast to get out of looking like a complete geek.

“Boxers have a pretty bold pattern. Wasn’t sure if you could handle it.” Chris exhaled a laugh past her tongue pressed against her front teeth and by the light of the bedside lamp Harry could see her blue green eyes light up in delight. She was unbuttoning his shirt while sitting on top of him. He reached under her to get his belt. The shirt pulled open she leaned down to kiss his chest. He abandoned his belt and began to stroke her, down across the small of her back and over the backs of her legs. Each pass of his hand drifted closer to the edge of her nightgown and when he reached it, he reached underneath to run the tips of his fingers up her skin.

“What the fucking fuck?” Harry now said out loud to the ceiling of the empty room. Satisfied that no amount of rhetorical expletives would make Chris suddenly reappear, he reached over and turned the light off. He had turned it off earlier, when they had begun to pull the last of each other’s clothes off. Chris had objected and turned it back on. Harry, now alone in the dark, wondered how many other bad habits had carried over from his lovemaking to Claire.

“Fucking A.” Out loud. To the ceiling. To himself. He exhaled, then yawned, then rolled over and closed his eyes. Her perfume was on the pillow. He crumpled it up and pressed it against his face. Inhaled deeply, then again.

***

The travel alarm sounded promptly at seven. He rolled over to the empty pillow, pushed his face in and inhaled her perfume again. It was less apparent now but still there. He got up to shower. Harry, Lou and Craig were to meet for breakfast at eight. They then had a nine thirty appointment at Towards Better Health offices with the Managing Director. Adrian Wallace. He was going to walk them through the operation. Meet all four staffers, tour the two rooms they worked out of and then lock them in a rented conference room to pick apart the business plan. TBH had yet to publish their first UK issue but Adrian had rushed ahead and assembled a staff nonetheless. The home office was none too happy with that commitment to human resources and had sent Intaglio over to as much police the thing as help the launch.

Craig was already at a table for four when Harry got to the breakfast room. Neither Chris nor Lou were anywhere to be seen. Harry scanned the tables for a hint that she might have already eaten. Half finished coffee cups, broken croissants, but the staff had empty tables cleared. Harry sat down across from Craig.

“Sleep well?” Craig asked over his copy of the Guardian.

“Not bad.” Harry lied. “Isn’t that a bit left wing for you? Ah, coffee, yes, please. Lots of it.” He told the waiter while waving at Craig’s paper.

“It’s a rag.” Craig said. “But it’s the only rag they had.”

The waiter poured coffee and put down the carafe. Thank God, thought Harry. Between jet lag and booze and the late night, he should have been face down on the table, sound asleep. Some kind of nervous energy was keeping him awake. There was a basket of different breads on the table and Harry grabbed what looked like a slice of white. Craig had a half a whole grain muffin on his plate and kept reading the paper. Harry opened a small jar of blackberry preserve and began to dole it out on his bread. He looked around. The breakfast room had about twelve tables. The place was decorated in a light peach with English hunting prints hung on the walls. And nobody that could have been mistaken for Chris was in sight.

“Didja call Susan?” Harry asked.

“Yesterday afternoon. It was around eight at home.” ”Everything all right?” ”Yeah. She misses me.” ”Lucky you.”

“Hey.” Lou sat down and reached for a croissant out of the bread basket.

“Sleep well?” Craig asked.

“Uh huh. You?” ”Out like a light. Did a little reading. Letter from Mrs. Owen on setting up Towards Better Health United Kingdom. But nodded off and finally bagged it. Harry, how was dinner?” Lou smiled with one corner of his mouth up, the other down. Not quite a smirk but something that said more than I’m happy to be here and awake.

“Fine. Thanks. You should have stayed for the sea bass.”

“Something special?” Craig asked.

“Depends on the company.” Lou said.

“I don’t follow.” ”Harry apparently can do a lot better than either of us for dining companions.” ”Meet someone Harry?” Craig said it with an intonation that more meant somebody useful to the business than anything else.

“Had dinner with a woman named Chris. She was in line at the front desk with us yesterday. She’s a photo editor.” ”And she’s?” said Lou.

“And she’s in town doing something for the next two weeks and she’s pretty and blonde and she’s fun to talk to and she’s none of your fucking business beyond that.”

“Spend the night?”

“Care to have your face pressed through a plate glass window?” Harry was joking but there was enough in his tone to ensure Lou got the hint.

“Harry, you’re married.” Said Craig.
”I am, Craig. I am. And we’ve got a nine o’clock with Wallace. So what do we need to do?” ”His numbers don’t add up. Look.” Craig laid some pages out on the table. Sample circulation numbers for a United Kingdom edition of Towards Better Health. “He’s projecting one hundred thousand circ by the end of year one.”

“Sounds better than good for a first year launch.” Harry looked at the papers. Craig’s work was well laid out and easy to understand at a glance. It belied the complexity that went into finding the data. That was Craig, making the essentially simple out of the apparently complex. “So what is he, bullshitting his numbers? Lifting response rates and he really can’t support the circ?” “That’s the easy answer. The one I went after first.”

“The one that didn’t pan out at all.” Lou said.

Craig looked almost embarrassed. “It didn’t.” He added, “But you have to look at the obvious. Sound of hooves coming around the mountain, you don’t expect zebras and all.” “Today’s cliché is brought to you by Craig and the fine folks at Post cereals!” Lou affected an announcer’s voice.

“I’m getting with Harry on the window thing.” Craig grumbled. “Although holding your head under water might be fun too.”

“We are on an island. Lots of water.” Harry joined in. “So what’s the hard answer that you did find?” “His test issues support first year circ numbers, assuming nothing goes ridiculously wrong.” “Let’s assume.” Harry said.

“Ok, lets. Nothing goes wrong, his projections hit, the magazine is off to a flying start and Owen has a pretty property here.” “We all live happily ever after and Intaglio saves the day.” Lou had lost the voice.

“Except that if you further assume that the ad to edit ratio over here is the same as the American edition, that’s where the numbers go south. There’s not enough projected revenue to account for the number of pages.” “Accounting error?” Harry asked.

“Can be I guess…” “But you don’t like to guess.” Harry continued.

“No. The number of pages he should be selling for the circ and page count of the book should be bringing in between twelve to fifteen percent more revenue than Adrian is building into his projections.” ”What’s the English playing field look like? How’s it compare to America?” Harry asked.

“Not entirely sure. I don’t know who the advertisers are and how endemic they are. Adrian’s defined a per page rate that checks out when you look at competitive sets, but I don’t know who advertises and when.”
“Editorially they don’t seem to be in a bad spot.” Lou said. “I walked around a little yesterday while Harry was hog-tying his filly…” ”Plate glass window Lou, plate glass window.” Harry did not look up from buttering his croissant.

“An-y-way,” Lou said, stretching the syllables out; “TBH doesn’t have a lot in their way, competitive set-wise. There are a couple of magazines aimed at a general health market, but with a lot of cosmetic coverage. Health and beauty are close, but these books land square in the beauty field so there’s not much crossover. If TBH can cover beauty, and I say cover, not focus on, with a strong health core they won’t have many other people playing in their arena.”

“So, who’s advertising?” asked Harry. “Beauty pays. Health products. TBH in the States relies on a lot of prescription advertising. That’s illegal here so where do they turn? Why the shortfall in potential revenue? Is Adrian not selling or selling too low or what?” ”Or what.” Said Craig ”What do we know about Adrian?” asked Lou.

“Solid publishing background.” Said Harry. “Packager, good edit background in some of the bigger houses over here, struck out on his own in ’92. Had made a go of it with some specialty magazines, a small book line and sold off international rights to some local authors. Strictly speaking, he has more book experience than magazine, but he can put an editorial team together and get product out.” ”That’s not what we need right now.” Said Craig. “He’s going to need to sell more ads, he’s going to need to get newsstand space.” ”Edit’s coming in from the U.S.” Lou added. “His strong point is his weak point. He’s got muscle where he doesn’t need it then.”

“I guess so.” Said Harry, scanning the room.

“Harry, you’re going to have to do better than guess.” There was a sudden sharp note in Craig’s voice. “We don’t, or Adrian doesn’t meet revenue potential, we’ve got a problem.” ”We won’t green light it if we’re not convinced.” Harry said.

“That assumes we’re paying attention.” Craig shot back. “I don’t care if you’ve decided that this is a trip you play around on, just get your work done first. Please?” He added, softening his tone, “You’ve got to do the hard analysis just like the rest of us.”

“I’m right there with you.” ”Harry’s ok.” Lou said. “I was just yanking his chain. Don’t worry about anything.” There was an unconvinced look in his eyes as he looked across the table at Harry. Harry looked past Lou, back at Craig but let the rest of the room rest in his peripheral. She was not here. Had not come in. Was just not here.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby.” Harry said.

“Harry.” Lou looked at him and the cautionary stare intensified, “You ok?”

“Fine.”

“OK. See you in the lobby.” Lou turned back to his coffee.

Harry pulled a block of paper out of his briefcase and wrote out a note: Missed you. Call me when you’re back. Room 307 (but you knew that) cell 12102320.

“Please leave this for Chris Adams.” Harry handed the folded paper to the front desk clerk then crossed the lobby and sat down on the leather chair. The one that afforded a view of the whole room.

“Do we have tube directions?” Craig asked, straightening his tie, coming upon Harry. Always formal, Craig had a gold tie on with a white shirt with a brand new Brooks Brothers gray-green suit. Dressed to kill. Harry wore khakis with a blue blazer and blue oxford button down shirt. Tassel loafers. Harry pretty much always wore khakis with a blue oxford button down. Pretty much always had tassels on too. Lou thought that Harry dressed like a quintessential single guy. Finding something that was both comfortable and that he looked relatively good in, he’d stick with it day after day. Kept him from having to make fashion decisions. Lou sometimes wanted to know what Claire did or didn’t think of the way he dressed himself. In bars, over a drink and a club soda , Harry would admit to her really not paying attention. That was all he ever said.

Lou wore blue jeans, a black jacket and a Syracuse University t shirt. Maria hated that he wore that as a business outfit but she had given up on getting him to change years ago. It was just a different aspect of Lou to love, so she did with the occasional resignation. Lou was a ‘Cuse graduate and followed their basketball team closely. He didn’t anticipate talking basketball much on this trip since neither Harry nor Craig were game fans. He’d stick to business. They exited the lobby and headed out into London.
”Guys?” Harry and Craig turned. ”Look at us, we get a fourth and I take my shoes off? We got a Beatles’ cover.”

***

Wallace Media was Adrian and four assistants. It aspired be Towards Better Health U.K. but truly was located on Axe and Bottle court; a nice way of saying: Alley. In two large rooms plus a bathroom right next to a plumbing parts wholesaler, Adrian had set up his business. Wallace Media Plc. struck Harry as a front for something , but Harry could be suspicious from time to time. It struck Lou and Craig much the same way and they could not. The receptionist was a pleasant, very white skinned woman named Sara. She was punked out in leather, ripped nylons and safety pins. She sat in an open area away from the other desks but Harry didn’t immediately assume that that was because of her appearance. What he did think was that she was about a quarter century late to the movement that Harry had basked in the dawn of . He also thought they might lose Lou right here and now, he being known for his love of the iconoclastic.

“We’re Intaglio Consulting. We’re working with Owens media.” Lou announced. So far, so good, they still had him but there was the slightest of smiles on his face. “Here to see Adrian.”

“Mr. Wallace, our Managing Director?” ”He’ll do as well.” Lou’s smile was a little more than slight.

“I’ll ring him.” ”That would be delightful.”

She picked up the phone and buzzed Adrian who presumably was hidden behind aluminum venetian blinds in the one anteroom, other than the bathroom, off of the large main room. She waited and then said: ”Some American gentlemen to see you. Consultants for Owens Media.”

Harry watched the blinds being pushed by air pressure and the door to the anteroom open almost immediately. A tall, elegant man, clean shaven with a square chin and wavy silver hair in an immaculate black suit stepped out. He was smiling.

“Gentlemen. I’m Adrian Wallace.” He extended his hand to Harry first.

“Harrison Moss. Harry.” Adrian’s reception made it clear that he knew who they were and what they were here for. Harry didn’t bother to elaborate.

“Lou Fugazy.” ”Craig Smith.” ”Do come in please. May I offer you something? Coffee, tea, water perhaps?” Harry took coffee, as did Craig. Lou opted for water. “Sara, would you please?” Adrian commanded and led them into the office, closing the door behind him.

“First time in the U.K.?” Adrian asked. He sat in a black and chrome leather chair behind a glass top desk. Lou, Craig and Harry sat in smaller leather and chrome chairs across from him. There was very little space in the office. They felt cramped. There was, aside from Adrian’s work surface, no other place on which to rest anything. Presumably the venetian blinds were drawn for privacy but, Harry thought, they also allowed Adrian the ability to scan his editorial floor when he needed to. Every level surface that was not a bookshelf heavy with some “Wallace” imprinted volume was covered in a color print of Adrian with one person of note or another. Harry recognized some the royal family “b” list but most of the people were strangers. He wondered how Chris would organize a photo collection like this. Which shots she would keep, which she would throw away, didn’t matter who was in them. Shit! He had to get back into the action. Adrian was going over something about his future contracts and publishing plans and Harry had missed it. Adrian paused.

“So you’re hoping for a partnership with John’s Hopkins?” Harry asked, parroting the last few words he could remember and stitching them together. “An underwriting for TBH UK?” ”Well no, we have their endorsement for the health column, as I mentioned.” Adrian answered, “I’d like them, as I said, to solely sponsor an issue and I’m thinking the third or fourth. Something to give us a bit of a lift off the ground.” ”Uh, sole sponsorship is a pretty risky proposition.” Craig said. “Towards Better Health didn’t look at sole sponsorship until late into the nineties and I would remind you that they were almost in publication for fifty years at that point. You’re talking about the third or fourth…” ”Yes well, we are not building Rome anew.” Adrian interrupted Craig. “Towards Better Health United Kingdom…” he stretched the title out, “Well, we’re not blazing new trails as it were. We’re treading in the well worn steps of the mother edition. As such, I think we can well afford to take a few risks resting on the laurels of the established brand.”

Craig was red. He was not an argumentative person and he was exquisite with numerical analysis. Where he was weak was in parrying tit for tat which was what was happening now. In past encounters, the three men relied on each others qualities to compliment the other’s shortcomings. Craig could quote numbers with a passion, Lou had a sense for editorial, Harry was quick and eloquent and almost lawyer-like as he synthesized facts quickly, succinctly, tossing them at an opponent’s in rapid fire succession. He never lost an argument or failed to state his case or make his adversary understand with whom he had just grappled.

“I’m sorry, could I make a phone call?” Harry asked Adrian.

“Yes, of course. Please.” He rose and opened the door and beckoned someone. A young, thin, equally white woman named Emily took him to a desk in the far corner of the room. He sat down, thanked her and called the hotel.

It was eleven thirty. “Harry Moss, room three oh seven. Any messages for me?” ”No sir.” Said the front desk operator.

“Thank you.” He hung up and walked back into the meeting. Craig was rustling through papers and questioning numbers of Adrian who responded in a quiet and measured manner. Lou shot Harry a look. Harry wondered what had happened to Chris that morning.

“Shall we order lunch?” Adrian asked.

“That might be a good idea.” Lou answered and menus were produced. The men picked sandwiches off of a menu from a local shop. While they all made small talk with Adrian and waited, Harry sat quietly. Lunch came and was eaten and cleared and Craig asked a few more questions about projected circulation numbers that Adrian answered but only half so. Quite comfortably too. Harry stepped out to make another phone call. At two thirty, Lou suggested that they had taken enough of Adrian’s time.

“Its been a pleasure, gentlemen.” Adrian answered. “May I offer myself for any other questions?” ”Not today thanks.” Lou smiled. “May we make an appointment for tomorrow? I’m sorry, but I think jet lag has affected some of us more severely than others.” Lou looked at Harry.

“I’m afraid I’m in France tomorrow.” Said Adrian. “And I may well be Wednesday.” ”Well, may we take some time with you on Thursday?” Lou asked through teeth that were almost clenched trying to keep a smile up.

“Yes. Thursday. I’ll have Emily arrange it.” And the meeting was over and they confirmed a nine o’clock appointment with Emily Thursday then left.

They walked silently to the tube, ran their weekly passes through the gate and caught the train back to Oxford Circus. Craig had gotten the stop wrong. The hotel was not immediately near any tube station but could be walked to from Bond Street in one direction and Oxford Circus in the other. They opted for Bond Street in that its approach ran through quieter neighborhoods. Oxford Circus meant fighting their way through London shopping crowds which is what they were doing now. After two blocks, Lou pulled them sharply right onto Swallow Place. ”Let’s get a drink.” Lou pointed out The King’s Head pub sign ahead.

“Its not even four.” Harry said.

“Close enough.”

Craig followed them in. Lou picked out a small booth in the very back and motioned them both to sit down. He went to the bar, spoke to the barman quietly for a few moments and then returned with three English pints of beer. Harry presumed ale, lager was a more continental brew. Craig didn’t care. Lou sprinkled salt on his napkin. Classic drinker’s trick, it kept the condensation on the glass from making the glass stick to the napkin. Harry followed suit, salting his napkin. Craig didn’t. Neither of them noticed that Lou was drinking a beer. Lou didn’t drink. But he did, and they were each about a quarter way into their pint when Lou sat back, smiled, looked at Harry and said: ”So, you gonna be so fucking distracted that we might as well take a teddy bear in your place?”

“I’m sorry.” Harry knew what was up and it wasn’t good. Craig said nothing.

“Don’t want to sound like a cliché my friend, but ‘sorry’ is not good enough.” Lou’s voice, normally soft, smoky and flowing, was sharp and biting. He pushed what was left of his beer, most of it, away and continued. “Sorry is not going to get to whatever Adrian is or is not doing, Harry. You had no clue what was going on in there and it cost us. Big time. Now he’s got us in retreat and he knows it and if this is a good property or not, we don’t know. We’re way behind the eight ball in finding out.”

“You’re right.” ”Enough said.”

“So our buddy is in France which gives us some breathing room.” Craig said.

“Research room. It’s an opportunity and this time we’re not going to waste it. Harry, please, please re-read Craig’s analyses.” ”Yes.” Harry’s tail was tucked firmly between his legs. Lou sensed his shame.

“I said enough said and I mean it. Please Harry. You fucked up but that’s over. Now we need you.” ”I’m here.” Harry said. Craig smiled at him. Not showing teeth but the convinced smile that their partner was back on board.

“Good. Go over Craig’s numbers. Craig, give him copies of all of Adrian’s proposals to Owens Media. I want him versed. Harry, can you…” ”Competitive set? I’ve got some friends at DK I can call. They can intro me to some magazines. Quick and dirty but its intel.”

“Good. I’m doing the newsstand rounds. Talk to some folks. They can give me their distributor’s contacts and I’ll talk to them. Make sure the system works on the ground here the way it says it does on paper in the States.”

Craig pulled a copy of a magazine called Total Health out of his briefcase. ”Found this. Found the name of what passes for ABC over here, the British Audit Bureau of Circulation. It was on the indicia. Got an appointment tomorrow afternoon to dig through how they’re measuring copies sold.”

It was Lou’s turn to smile, teeth and all. “Don’t fucking pull one on Intaglio.”

Beers, except for Lou’s, were finished and papers put away. Harry paid and without saying did so out of his own pocket. They left for the hotel. It was four thirty and Harry hoped to grab an early, light dinner and then spend the rest of the night covering what he had failed to today.

“Harry?” Lou’s voice was back to soft and smoky. They were walking the last block, the quiet block of George street before they got to the hotel door.

“I know. Enough said Lou, but I’m still sorry. I let you guys down.” ”Harry, is she worth it?” ”I don’t know.”
“You’re going to find out though, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Eventually.” ”Be careful.” ”Noted.”

They passed by the front reception window and went to their rooms. Harry dropped off his briefcase, went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He was still jet-lagged and he was tired. But he straightened his clothes and went back out, passing the reception window and the Italian attendant. He found a take away sandwich place on Baker street. Kosher, although Harry was not Jewish and didn’t care but he did find Kosher food to be an amusing anomaly in London. Maybe he just didn’t know better. The sign above the counter said “Best Chips In England” and Harry asked about them.

“Would I lie to you?” said the heavy woman behind the counter. She was large, with black curly hair and a face that had seen enough of life to be wrinkled but not enough to look discouraged. She smiled at Harry and he instantly liked her.

“Guess not. Let me have a large and a turkey on rye.” ”Here?” ”Take away.” ”Pity. We like to keep the good ones.” Harry liked her even more. He went back to the hotel and passed the reception window. In his room, he ate the sandwich and the chips and they were pretty good. He worked his way through all of Craig’s notes and took notes himself. He stopped to read some of Adrian’s proposals and started to cross-reference promised numbers to Craig’s actuals. They didn’t add up. That was no surprise.

When the sandwich was long forgotten and a greasy bag marked where the chips once were, Harry looked at the clock. It was twelve-thirty. Another half hour and he would turn in. But he needed to stretch. He got up and walked around his room. Such as he could. He got his key, walked into the hallway, then to the stairs. Then he walked down the stairs. Three flights into the lobby. He circled the small lobby twice. The front desk clerk, a short middle-eastern looking man looked up at him. Harry stopped at the reception window.

“Harrison Moss. Any messages for me?” The man looked at the cubby hole.

“No sir.” ”Room 307?” He looked again.

“No sir.”
“Thank you. Good night.”