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New York City, Upper East Side
Very close to Stone Studios was one of the city’s most exclusive luxury apartment complexes. Available units were never advertised conventionally, because they were available only to those with staying power. This was usually evidenced by a massive fall from grace, then a return, Lazarus-like, to smote all those responsible for their initial downfall. And if an innocent or two was caught in that vengeful sweep, well, what of it? It was all omelets and eggs. Such at least were the thoughts of the person who owned the only two penthouse suites: Rothman Cartilage, Super Agent.
A sunset Roman in spectacle was just commencing and the illumination in Rothman’s massive living room was magnificent in its subtlety and palette. A sixty foot wall of glass provided a view of the city second only to Stone’s. The furnishings were sparse but exquisite, each piece carefully selected as much for function as for effect.
Along the far wall ran a fifteen foot glass tank, empty except for water and nine piranhas. Rumor had it that he sometimes fed these creatures during one of his rare and exclusive parties. Gold fish, usually, the large and expensive ones from Japan. Perhaps the odd mammal. And just before the wriggling sacrifice was tanked, he markered onto it the name of some partygoer unlucky enough to be the night’s object lesson.
Among the scattering of magazines on a low glass coffee table was the same magazine Phoena had been affected by so strongly. For all her distaste, there was no denying the sheer magnetic power of its cover. On it, Solipsum stood resplendent, pinstriped suit and silken tie immaculate, a raw cut ruby in a twist of gold adorning his index finger.
The horizon’s sandy edge drank the last red seep of sun and the shadows in the room deepened and pooled. A new shadow slowly joined them. A shadow where none should have been. It was cast by the image of Solipsum
unfolding
from the flat plane of the magazine’s cover
until it was no longer a photograph of
but simply
Solipsum himself
walking through the magazine’s cover
as if through a door.
He stood and brushed off an errant serif as he gained his bearings. Then he leaned against the glass wall and gazed out at the city, the dying blood-light on his face exquisite. A bathrobed figure entered the room to see a silhouetted form where none should be.
“Who the fuck?” snarled Rothman.
A cigarette lighter snapped. Its glow illuminated a face as a Gitane Red was lit. And Rothman instantly recognized his unexpected guest. “Solipsum?”
“In the flesh.”
“How did you get in here?”
The model languidly exhaled. “A door was left open.”
Rothman turned his face to mask his surprise and made his way to the bar. “Cocktail?”
“No. Thank you.”
“You don’t mind if I indulge? It’s so rare I get the pleasure of unexpected company.”
Solipsum inclined his head. “By all means.”
The Agent glanced over his shoulder as he mixed something complex and very alcoholic. “That could be your motto, couldn’t it? ‘By all means.’”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Let’s just say that in this business, a certain ruthlessness can take a man very far.”
“Are you suggesting I get a t-shirt made?” said the model, smiling.
Rothman barked a short laugh. “Perhaps in Italian?”
Solipsum’s smile slowly faded, his lips compressing to a wire thinness. “Sometimes you go too far. And forget to whom you owe much of what you are.”
“As you forget who helped you once. Out of a very messy situation.”
“That was—unintended.”
“Be that as it may. That girl was worth a great deal of— ”
“Agent. I did not come here to discuss the past. Let us leave it where it belongs. Dead. Buried. Unless, of course, you have no interest in the future?”
Rothman knew when to be silent. He took his time crossing the room, his thoughts racing, finally seating himself on a lounger covered in the hide of some endangered exotic.
“To business then,” said Solipsum. “There is a new advertising campaign coming up, a very large campaign. Possibly the biggest ever. It will involve only the best people at the very peak of their form. And they want Phoena. And me. Together.”
Rothman laughed harshly. “That’s impossible. It simply won’t happen. Not for all the money in the world. I can’t even mention your name in her presence, not after what she went through with you.”
Solipsum’s gaze turned inward, his voice tinged with a certain regret. “She never did care about the money.” Then his eyes met the other man’s. “But there is one thing she does care about. The one thing she desperately desires but can never have. Unless you choose to give it to her.”
“Unless I choose to give it to her.” The Agent did not flinch under a gaze most could not even meet. “Now why would I do that?”
“To fulfill your dream, Rothman.”
“And what dream might that be?”
“Why, the dream of owning your own agency, of course.”
“I already have an agency.”
Solipsum waved a hand in dismissal, the stone in his ring glinting. “You have one girl and nine also-rans. I’m offering you far more than just an agency, Rothman. I’m offering you what you’ve always wanted. The chance to become a Player again. By becoming the majority shareholder in P.M.P.”
Rothman’s glass clacked as it hit the table. “You can’t be serious.”
“On the contrary, I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”
“So the rumors are true. P.M.P. is yours.”
“Yes.”
Rothman smelled the blood in the water. “Why are you offering me this? This—Campaign—you mentioned must be something very special.”
“You cannot even begin to imagine.”
“I’ll let you know in the morning. I need time to think this over.”
“No. You will decide now. I think we both know you have already made up your mind. So— ” Solipsum’s eyes seemed preternaturally bright. “Do we have a deal?”
“Yes. On one condition.”
“Careful, Cartilage.” Solipsum looked pointedly at Rothman’s right hand. “Be sure your reach does not exceed your grasp.”
The Agent pretended not to notice. “The Club. The Seventh Level. I want that too.”
“In five years.”
“One.”
“Three. But if circumstance permits, I’ll give it to you sooner. My final offer.”
“Deal.”
They shook hands, Solipsum enjoying the cool feel of plastic.
He was almost at the door when he turned. “I will see you at the Party on Saturday.”
Rothman smiled. It was very disconcerting, like watching a shark attempt such a facial expression. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”