The Adman

By Don Potter

MAD MEN meets THE FIRM.

Advertising's golden age begins in the '60s with MAD MEN and ends in the '80s with THE ADMAN. Hot shot ad executive Ben Norris fights to achieve his dreams in a world of shifting values - where each battle he wins causes him to lose a little more control of his life. Ben thrives on recognition and does whatever it takes to please his clients, his boss, and even those working for him. Dedication pays off professionally but does little to support his home life in spite of his love for his young daughter, Katie.

A fatal obsession with fashion designer Liz Atherton ruins his marriage and jeopardizes his business life also. Ben stumbles down a path of personal destruction and murder from which there seems to be no return.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781620952610

Book preview

9781620952610

PROLOGUE

The giant locomotive rocked from side to side as it thundered along the tracks, pulling a payload of passenger cars behind. Sparks crackled and flew from the electrical contacts as they skipped along the overhead wires in a never-ending effort to feed energy to the hungry monster speeding closer to where Ben Norris stood with his friends.

The others quickly abandoned the platform, leaving Ben to face the onslaught alone. He chose to stay and overcome his fear by applying the plan he devised to address the dangerous situation. Excitement welled up in Ben as he summoned all the courage he could in preparation for this perilous adventure.

As the engine forged nearer, Ben wrapped his arms and legs around a light stand next to the tracks. His grip tightened when the horn sounded one last blast before the mass of iron rushed by. The wind whipped up mounds of dirt, which stung Ben’s face and burned his eyes, but he was committed to watching the event until the rumbling procession passed. He did not breathe for fear of ingesting the swirling debris, and his mouth was as dry as the roadbed itself. No sounds, save the roar of the train, could be heard until the last car was safely down the tracks. Only then did his pounding heart relax in triumph, signaling he fought the battle with the Pennsylvania Railroad and won. His friends cheered this brave accomplishment.

The year was 1961. Ben Norris was eleven. And he was invincible.

CHAPTER ONE

I’d kill for that, Ben Norris said under his breath as he stood at the bar and gazed upon the magnificent woman who just entered the room.

Her presence quickly changed his decision to leave Geoffrey David’s party, which turned out to be a bore even though it was the first celebration of the 1985 Christmas season.

Ben, along with other up-and-coming ad agency people, always made an appearance at this annual event. GD, as he was known in advertising circles, was Madison Avenue’s premier creative rep and used this opportunity to thank the agency people for their business over the past year as well as remind them of his position in the industry. Not attending was considered a sign of disrespect, so Ben made sure he showed up for a few drinks and a brief encounter with the host before slipping away early in the evening.

There was plenty of food and drink and always an abundance of beautiful woman –- models, actresses and those on the fringes of advertising wanting to network with influential agency types, find dates for the evening, or both. They worked the room flitting from prospect to prospect like a honeybee moving about a garden filled with flowers.

Ben had enough of the pretty people and their shallow conversation and was about to go home. When the captivating lady headed his way, he changed his game plan on the spot. Instinctively Ben pushed his empty glass to the bartender. Hit me again. Stoli on the rocks, twist. Make it a double.

This woman was different from the eye candy on display all evening. She was absolutely stunning, tall and slender with flashing green eyes framed by flowing raven hair and accented by her porcelain skin. This lovely creature looked as if she stepped out of the show window at Bergdorf Goodman’s.

Tanqueray martini, hold the vermouth, please, she ordered and stopped next to Ben.

She took a sip, looked in Ben’s general direction, and said, Whew, what a day.

A Tanqueray drinker. You in the agency business? Ben inquired.

Worse yet, shmattes.

Isn’t fashion and clothing a wine drinking crowd?

Not when you’ve had the kind of day I had. She scanned the room for a familiar face.

Sensing he was about to lose her interest, Ben quickly concluded cocktail party talk would get him nowhere, so he went for the kill. The Four Seasons is great this time of year, don’t you think?

Yes, lovely.

The hors d’ouvres here are almost gone, and you must be hungry, he added.

Famished. Nothing all day but half-a-bagel with a shmeer of cream cheese for breakfast.

Let’s go, then. I know Philippe, the maitre d’. I’ll get a table by the pond.

Wow, you really work fast. Don’t you think we ought to get to know each other first? I’m Liz Atherton.

We’ll get to know each other over dinner. I’m Ben Norris with MP&F Advertising.

Monroe, Petersen & Forrester, that’s a big agency, Liz replied, demonstrating she knew who the players were in the ad game. Her eyes stopped roving, and she focused squarely on him. Okay, Ben Norris, let’s go before I pass out from malnutrition. .

Ready when you are, Ben said as he drained the glass.

They left Geoffrey David’s townhouse and strolled arm-in-arm to the Seagram Building, a few blocks away. Snowflakes drifted down through the nippy night air. Ben felt warm inside. Was it the Christmas season, the several cocktails, or the excitement of this new and fascinating woman on his arm? It didn’t matter. Though he was thirty-five, at that moment he felt like a kid again.

To Ben’s consternation, it was Philippe’s night off. They waited in the Four Seasons bar for nearly an hour before being seated by the tranquil pool, as he promised.

Fueled with more drinks and wine with dinner, Ben wove a fascinating, if not totally truthful, tale of his childhood in Philadelphia, his athletic career through high school and college, and his current success with one of Madison Avenue’s leading advertising agencies. She listened intently while he controlled the conversation until the after-dinner drinks were served.

But that’s enough about me, tell me about you, Ben said. He acted interested while plotting his next move.

Liz began by talking about her early days as the daughter of a textile executive and living in Lowell, Massachusetts until her family moved to a small town near Concord, New Hampshire.

Why did your folks move there? Ben asked.

Because my father died and his brother offered mom a place for us to live. I was twelve.

Must have been rough.

It was. But I got out of there, and went to the University of New Hampshire on a scholarship before coming to New York and trying to break into fashion design.

Left unsaid were Liz’s little secrets. She had no intention of telling him that her father lost his job and committed suicide. About the horrible way she was introduced to sex and the ensuing promiscuity which robbed her of the joys of being a teenager. Getting started in the design business by being kept by a garment industry executive. Or her short marriage to Jonathan Atherton III, which allowed her to exchange the tarnished Underwood name for the more acceptable Atherton brand. And more recently her association with several unsavory characters, one of whom she had a late night rendezvous with later that evening. Since no one needed to know about these things, Liz stuck to the G rated version of her life story.

Ben was not paying much attention anyway. His mind flipped back and forth between figuring out how to get Liz into the sack and assessing the problems he would have on the home front if he didn’t call soon.

I really have to make a pit stop, he said stealing a glance at his watch. Ben had devised a plan and rushed downstairs to execute it.

Once inside the phone booth, Ben tore open a fresh pack of Marlboros and lit one while the phone rang on the other end.

Sorry, Penny, this is the first break I’ve had all evening. The agency was invited to pitch the Jacobs Brothers Coffee account. Isn’t this great news? Not allowing a response, Ben forged ahead. You know what this could mean for me? Senior VP, Management Supervisor, that’s what.

Whoa, slow down to a trot, she said.

Looks like I’ll be tied up for a while. Can’t let this big fish get away. Got to run, babe. I’ll see ya when I see ya. Kiss Katie good night for me.

He hung up the phone, leaned back against the wall, and took a long drag on his cigarette before directing his thoughts back to Liz and said, Better close the sale right now!

Ben headed back to the dining room ready to concentrate on the day’s one remaining conquest. An empty table greeted him. All that remained was a leather folder containing the bill. He summoned the captain, lit another Marlboro and drummed the linen draped tabletop as he waited for the credit card voucher to be returned. His mind flipped frantically through the events of the evening in an attempt to determine what went wrong and where he lost control of the situation. He did not consider the possibility that Liz had plans and he was excluded.

He walked out onto 52nd Street and headed east. He couldn’t go home after the story he just told Penny. It was three long blocks to Second Avenue, and Ben stopped at the first bar he saw. It was one of the old watering holes he frequented as a young, single adman.

Ben felt lonely, much as he did in 1976, when he first arrived in Manhattan. He bragged to friends and family how Ben Norris was going to take the advertising business by storm, but secretly feared what lay ahead. Over the years, Ben learned he had a real knack for the ad game. Yet he was always on his guard; because advertising, as practiced on Madison Avenue, was no game at all. It was war.

He lit another cigarette, stared beyond the bottles into the mirror at the back of the bar, and reflected on his ten-year relationship with Penny. They met while he was interviewing for a much coveted job at MP&F. He was hired and claimed her as his lucky charm. An exciting courtship, with lots of partying, culminated in marriage a year later.

Penny believed in honesty as the foundation of any relationship, so she told Ben about being date-raped as a sophomore in college. She appeared to have overcome whatever issues resulted from this assault and it did not seem to affect their love life, which was frequent if not passionate. But once they settled into married life, Penny reduced her drinking to an occasional glass of wine rather than trying to keep up with Ben’s alcohol consumption. It was then that their sex life slowed down too.

She was perfectly satisfied to hug and cuddle, but Ben took this as foreplay rather than a display of affection. Over the years, they refrained from touching except when he wanted sex. Penny could not get past the notion of romantic love without sexual expression while Ben clung to the concept that sex was the means to intimacy. They did not discuss their frustrations, so both suffered silently.

Penny retained her pretty, all-American girl looks over the years. She had a youthful face and figure and looked like a college student when her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. However, for Ben’s business engagements she could transform herself into a sophisticated woman by wearing her hair up and accentuating her features with the carefully understated use of make up.

Her education and career as a writer for a major magazine made Penny a more than adequate conversationalist. People assumed she and Ben were the perfect professional couple, but no one knew what did or didn’t go on behind closed doors. Their seven year old daughter, Katie, was the glue holding them together.

Ben had taken to chasing women as a means of diversion. Tonight’s episode with Liz was not an uncommon event, although no one ever dumped him in the manner she did. Her allusiveness made her more desirable. I’ll check her out tomorrow and see if it’s worth another shot. Ya never know.

Good evening Ms. Atherton, the doorman said. The man doubled as a bouncer, at the Meridian, a popular dance club housed in an old shirt factory in a seamy area west of Manhattan’s Garment District where Liz was a frequent visitor.

Has Mr. Golan arrived? she asked. Liz knew she was an hour late.

Yes, he’s upstairs. You can go right in, the man said. He removed the thick velvet cord from one of the brass stands blocking the doorway. These symbolic barriers were not necessary, because there was plenty of muscle present to keep out unwanted guests. But the decorative ropes made the point without overstating the obvious.

With the music pumping and the lights flashing across the dance floor packed with writhing bodies, Liz walked past the bar as if she were a model on a runway showing off the season’s newest fashion creations. Heads turned as she strolled by. Liz enjoyed the limelight and had no compunction about strutting her stuff.

Liz came to another checkpoint with another velvet rope. After being recognized, she was allowed access to the stairs leading to the private suites on the mezzanine where special guests could enjoy the view of the activities below while being free to drink, drug, and get cozy in total privacy.

A man in a black leather jacket stood as sentinel at the door to the suite. He was an ominous individual with a head of dark, tightly-curled hair and a full-beard to match. A single eyebrow crossed his forehead resting above a pair of piercing, deep-set, dark eyes. He had a prominent nose which had been rearranged by too many fights. A cruel mouth completed the picture. It was not necessary for him to reveal the ever-present gun housed in his shoulder holster -- even a casual observer could tell this was not a man one should annoy, even slightly.

Liz approached him. The man nodded but did not speak. He rapped three times on the door. Without waiting for a reply, he opened the door for her. She walked inside, and he immediately closed the door behind her.

Come in. I’ve been expecting you, Avi Golan said. He looked at his watch to indicate disapproval that she was late.

Liz moved toward the couch where he was seated and was greeted by a coffee table filled with more diamonds than she had ever seen at one time in her entire life. Even in the shadowy light, the gems sparkled and reflected their brilliance. Liz tried not to show how overwhelmed she was and said, above the driving beat of the music, Did you rob Tiffany’s?

It was quite late and Ben was very drunk when he arrived at his Gramercy Park apartment. Penny woke up when he tripped and fell while attempting to remove his trousers.

Oops, Ben slurred, sorry ‘bout that. Had a bunch of drinks at Michael’s.

With whom? his sleepy wife asked.

Hastings, he answered.

Oh, she mumbled and turned her back to him.

Then Ben Norris passed out unceremoniously with his six-foot frame lying spread-eagle on top of the covers.

CHAPTER TWO

Ben had two problems facing him in the morning. He was plagued with a raging hangover and a string of questions from his doubting wife.

What time did you stumble in?

Don’t know. Never checked the clock. Got undressed in the dark. Next time, I won’t be as considerate.

Hopping around the room trying to get your pants off before falling into bed is not what I call considerate. Like I asked, what time was it when you staggered in and performed your kangaroo routine?

Ben shrugged. This was Penny’s signal to press forward.

What’s the name of your new prospect? When are you pitching the business? Did you say Bill Hastings is the one to blame for you coming home in that condition? Are other agencies involved? Who has the business now? Penny’s rapid-fire line of questioning was a result of her reporter training, fueled by her fears of having an unfaithful husband.

What is this The Inquisition? I don’t need this crap. Not when I’m working my ass off!

He grabbed his coat, stormed out the door, and made a mental note to see Hastings first thing. Gotta get my story covered. Why is life so Goddamned complicated?

Ben jumped into a cab and tried to recover from the third degree he just endured and was too fragile to fight back today. Usually Ben could more than hold his own in a confrontation, because he embellished the facts. Never let the truth get in the way of a good story was his modus operandi. He lied in fear of not being accepted or of losing control. This fundamental character flaw evolved over the years and was now as natural to him as breathing, because Ben no longer knew when he was lying.

His thoughts were diverted when he noticed his reflection in the cab’s rearview mirror. The way he looked on the outside belied how he felt on the inside. Ben was blessed with handsome features: straight nose, pleasant mouth, strong chin and deep blue eyes. His once blond hair had turned dark, and the recent appearance of gray around the temples gave him a more considered look then he had in his younger years. He wore tailored suits and custom-made shirts and projected a confident demeanor. In every way, he appeared to be the ultimate adman. And this was precisely the image Ben wanted to convey. Yet, in those rare moments when he was honest with himself, Ben was afraid of not being able to measure up. Hence, he embraced the strategy that the best defense is a good offense.

Twenty minutes later Ben Norris stood at the 280 Madison Avenue. Many advertising agencies were located on this block. Several had space on the lower floors of the same building, but none of them came close in size or stature to Monroe, Petersen & Forrester, Inc. The other shops were newer to the world of advertising, with client lists that echoed their lesser status. MP&F was one of the giants of Madison Avenue with a rich history of success and a list of blue-chip accounts to prove it.

Ben joined MP&F nine years earlier after training with another agency following his graduation from Bucknell. He was VP Account Supervisor on Capital Foods, one of the agency’s largest clients, and was poised to move further up the ladder. If the agency could land the Jacobs Brothers Coffee account, which recently invited his shop to pitch its business, Ben saw a promotion coming his way.

It was a little before nine-thirty. Most of the creative people would not arrive for another half-hour, but Hastings would certainly be there.

Need to make sure he’s on board about last night, Ben muttered and looked at his watch. Got time for a couple of aspirins, washed down with some black coffee. Too little sleep, too much to drink and another fight with Penny. No wonder I have a headache.

Good morning Mr. Norris, chirped the receptionist as he exited the elevator on the fortieth floor. He managed a good morning smile and walked to his three–window office. With any luck, he thought, I’ll be moving from here with a Senior VP, Management Supervisor title and into a corner office in the next six months. A year tops.

Hastings was already in a meeting when Ben called his office. His secretary said he should be back soon, since he had a ten o’clock applicant coming in. Ben believed Hastings was the most anal-retentive creative person he ever met but acknowledged that the man did good work.

Tell him I need two minutes, no more, before the ten o’clock gets here. Better yet, I’ll come down and catch him between meetings.

Protective of her boss’s precious time, she tried to hold off Ben’s assault and schedule something for later in the day.

Don’t worry, no more than two minutes. I promise. Ben hung up before she could respond and hurried down the corridor. His phone rang. He knew who it was and would confront her in a minute.

Hastings’ gatekeeper was a pretty, young redhead named Molly Moran. Ben appreciated her professionalism and thought she was too bright to be wasting away in this dead-end job.

Ben thought, Maybe Hastings is banging little Miss Prim and Proper. That would be nice to know, since it would more than offset the small favor I need from him.

Hi, Molly. New hairstyle? You look more beautiful every time I see you. I’ll just grab a cup of coffee and wait in his office. Ben believed the best way to get past the guard gate was to drive right through it.

But Mr. Norris, it’s nearly ten. Mr. Hastings won’t have time to...

Time to what? asked Bill Hastings as he moved down the hallway to his office.

I was telling Mr. Norris that you have a ten o’clock waiting in the lobby.

Ben put his hand on Hastings shoulder and guided him into his office with the promise, Two minutes, no more. Honest.

He wasted no time, Need your help on a personal matter, old-buddy. Ben tried to be as friendly as possible in order to overcome the ever-present professional animosity that stood between them.

There were natural barriers between account service and creative people. Each side believed they were more important than the other. Creative wanted to be free to develop campaigns their way while account service seemed to place too many restrictions on them, always siding with the clients rather than fighting for better work.

But there was a deeper divide separating these men. They did not like each other on a personal level. It was an unspoken, subtle loathing buried deep down and aching to get out. Neither man openly showed their distain for the other, because they knew that unleashing these festering resentments could prove disastrous. So they stuffed the feelings instead of acting on them, choosing to use each other in pursuit of individual goals rather than to declare an all-out war, which was not an uncommon situation in the world of advertising.

In spite of the unwritten truce, the relationship was unsteady and each looked for every opportunity to upstage or stick it to the other. So when one asked for a favor it was considered a big deal and would be recorded on their mental scorecards for future use. Ben could tell from Hastings body language that he wanted to hear more, inspiring him to continue his pitch.

Did a stupid thing last night. Ran into a couple of the guys I trained with in the early days at my old agency. Instead of going home after a few pops at Geoffrey David’s place, we hit some bars, talked about old times and bullshitted each other about how great we’re doing.

Typical account man stuff, Hastings jabbed.

I could tell Penny was pissed when I called to tell her I was going out to dinner. So I fibbed a little. Told her I was working on the new business pitch for Jacobs Brothers, which you and I will talk about later, and that I would be home very late. My friends and I drank into the wee hours and I was a bit noisy when I finally got home. This morning, Penny pulled her investigative reporter routine on me. I reminded her that you and I had a skull session over lots of drinks at Michael’s Pub to talk about the Jacobs Brothers new business pitch. So that’s the party line if Penny brings up the subject to you at the agency Christmas party next week. Okay?

Glad I’m a bachelor. But if you want me to cover your lying ass, you owe me one. A big one. His alibi had a smirk on his face that told Ben this was not going to play out to his advantage. Nonetheless, Ben moved ahead without hesitation.

Right, big guy. Free for lunch today? I’m buying.

Can’t do it today.

Rain check? Ben asked.

Yeah, how about Friday?

You got it.

Lutece? Hastings asked, wanting to see just how badly Ben needed him to cover for last night’s chicanery.

Nothing but the best for a pal like you. I’ll make reservations for one and stop by your office about twelve-thirty.

Ben started down the hall. He turned to Molly and quipped, See, I told you no more than two-minutes. By the way, put me on his majesty’s calendar for Friday lunch. I’ll fetch him at twelve-thirty. Sharp. Ben added sharp to make the point that he was the one with the power.

CHAPTER THREE

With this crisis out of the way, Ben headed back to his office. His thoughts turned to Liz Atherton. What a schmuck. Didn’t get her phone number. Can’t remember where she works. Maybe she didn’t mention it. Must have been drunker than I thought. And, for my sins, I get to buy lunch at one of the priciest restaurants in town for that pain-in-the-ass Hastings.

Ben caught himself slipping into a negative attitude. With Bill Hastings being a frequent exception, he tried to think positively toward those with whom he worked. This practice was particularly important in dealings with creative people. Ben had a way of getting most writers and artists to cooperate rather than resistance being given direction. He accomplished this by treating them as if they were friends and proved this by selling their ads to the clients.

This approach did not extend to his relationship with Hastings. The only problem was this was the key creative guy working on Ben’s client, Capital Foods. For now, Ben knew he must try to offer the man respect, if not his trust.

He refocused on the situation at hand. How do I find her? Call Geoffrey David, of course! GD represents the best photographers, artists and writers in the business. Her firm must use him too. Bet that’s why Liz was at his party.

Ben made a beeline for his office, oblivious to the human activities along the way. He acknowledged his assistant’s presence with, Get me Geoffrey David on the phone. We’ll catch up on things when I’m through.

Right away, Tracey Howell replied. She placed the call. Ben marched into his office, closed the door and waited.

He’s not in the office, Tracey said through the intercom.

Let me talk to whoever you have on the phone. He was anxious to get the ball rolling.

Hi this is Ben Norris of MP&F. There was no need to say Monroe, Petersen & Forrester.

Hello Mr. Norris. Did you enjoy the reception last night?

The party was fabulous as only GD can do it, he