Babayaga Read Free

not the end of the world. They have accounts for you in Chicago, right? That’s where you’re originally from, isn’t it?”
    “I’m from Detroit.”
    “Perfect, see. Go get a job there. Those car accounts are strong.” Brandon had leaned back in his chair; it was as if they were talking about a baseball game or a boxing match. His attitude did little to comfort Will. Will’s previous Parisian clients had always been somewhat deferential. Not all of them worshiped him like Guizot did, but they all generally believed they could learn something from American marketing, and so they listened respectfully to what Will had to say. But being from the States himself, with an East Coast style and a crooked nose from playing football at Brown, Brandon had always dealt with Will as if he were little more than a foolish underclassman, there to be bullied or charmed, depending on the whim of the moment. “Detroit’s got, what, AMC, Chrysler, GM, and Ford? It’ll be a different game, sure, but you’ll be fine. Marry a Michigan girl and buy a nice house outside of town. They have great suburbs there. You’ll want to be in the suburbs. The niggers have taken over the city. But I guess you knew that.”
    Will was having trouble digesting the news. He reached for a cigarette. “Exactly how long before the billings stop?”
    Brandon had shrugged. “After the election. Nothing will happen until Ike’s out. No sense in pulling the plug till then. But no matter who wins, even if it’s Nixon’s fucking dog, this move is going to happen. The action simply isn’t here anymore. The government’s moving its spending to Asia. All our budgets are migrating there.”
    “They’re moving you, too?”
    “Me?” Brandon smiled a funny smile, surprised at Will’s question. “They’d like me to go south with them, but I’d rather not. I’m cooking up a project that might keep me here at least a bit longer, but it’s not going to involve any kind of advertising. So I’d say you’ve got a year, tops. But I’d start making plans now. Never hurts to be prepared.”
    Will had looked around the room. He was thirty-one years old with a corner office in Paris. He had worked hard to get here. If he went back home he would be stuck working for the old guard. He’d be trapped at a desk, listening to the old guard drone on about how things were done. The old guard would pile him up with dull research assignments before heading out to swoon their clients at the country club or screw their secretaries at the motor lodge. And in twenty years, if he was lucky, he would be the old guard. “Fuck.”
    His assistant, Madame Belec, poked her head in the door. “Monsieur Guizot est arrivé.”
    “Thanks, we’ll only be a minute more.”
    “Il semble très impatient.”
    “He always is,” said Will. She left and Will looked at Brandon. “I’m going to have to wrap this up. It appears I have a real client waiting.”
    “Aw, whaddaya mean.” Brandon laughed. “I’m a real client. We pay you guys good money. If I could figure out how to keep you on the gravy train I would, believe me. But they’re shutting down this side of the operation and the stuff I’m into now is way out of your league. You wouldn’t want it anyway, it’s grueling stuff, day and night.” Brandon snapped his fingers. “Oh damn, that reminds me, here”—he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out two tickets—“I was gonna swing by this reception over at the Hotel Rothschild tonight, but I can’t. The ticket’s yours if you want it. It’s up on rue Balzac, only a few blocks away. Full bar, and I bet the booze’ll be the good stuff. Go get yourself drunk, take a girl with you or meet a girl there, or better yet, meet two girls there.” Brandon laughed at his own joke as he rose to leave. “Seriously, you didn’t think it would last forever, did you? Now give me that report so I can show my guys you still care.”
    Will had handed over the Rhône-Poulenc