Mr. Magic

By Jeff Widmer

Brinker’s back. Can the advertising world survive?

Brinker has lost his magic. The agency’s CEO wants him to ace the competition. His former girlfriend wants him in detox. And as rival advertising executives disappear, an ambitious state trooper wants him in jail.

If this keeps up, the PR whiz who turned a serial killer into a national brand may have to vanish himself.

Throw in toxic waste, a nude car wash and a gun-toting presidential candidate and the czar of PR will have to spin some potent magic to escape the snare of sex, lies and greed that threatens to destroy his job, his sanity and the love of his life.

From the author of Mr. Mayhem and the CW McCoy series of crime novels comes Mr. Magic, the second outing for Brinker, the defrocked journalist famous for sex, satire and PR events that push the boundaries of legality and taste.

The novels have garnered praise from reviewers and readers alike. Louise Machinist, author of My House Our House, says of Mr. Mayhem, says “Jeff Widmer takes you on a wild ride in the murderous tour bus in a uniquely dark and twisted story that touches on euthanasia, addiction, sex and more. And then there's Brinker. . . .”

Kirkus Reviews calls Peak Season, the first novel in Widmer’s Florida series, “an entertaining mystery romp. CW is a great character—a noir detective trying to outrun her own past, suffering no fools along the way, [trying] to keep her cool as she solves a case of embezzlement, kidnapping, and murder in the Florida heat.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Widmer
• Release date: Oct 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370267446

Jeff Widmer

Jeff Widmer is the author of the CW McCoy and the Brinker series of crime novels and well as numerous standalone novels and non-fiction books. A former journalist, advertising executive and nationally syndicated reviewer, his work has appeared in publications ranging from Advertising Age to US Airways magazine to National Geographic World.

Book preview

BY THE TIME the first bullet struck the concrete wall, Brinker had run halfway across the parking garage. The second slug hit a car and set off its alarm. As he plunged down the metal stairs, he heard a third strike the blockhouse.

Stumbling out at ground level, Brinker hit the sidewalk at a dead run. A half-block later, he glanced behind to see Buddha gaining on him, the streetlights showing the big man breathing through his mouth. Rounding the corner, Brinker pressed his back against the plate glass window of an abandoned hair salon as a car roared out of the deck, blew through the traffic light and disappeared.

He was twenty yards from the ad agency in downtown Bethlehem and a million miles from safe.

Buddha waved him to keep going.

Chest heaving, Brinker held up a finger and tried to swallow. She pulled a gun!

Hands on his hips, Buddha bent forward and talked to the ground. I am mindful of that fact.

Brinker massaged a stitch in his side. She could have killed us.

If you remember, I suggested you stay out of sight.

Close to two a.m. on a bitter day in early April and Buddha wore sunglasses, a hooded sweatshirt and camo shorts. He straightened and started hopping in his high-top sneakers, his face as round as a balloon. For a moment he looked like that Korean rapper with the bowtie, the guy with the jerky dance moves.

Brinker said, I thought you said she was drunk.

That would be my guess, Buddha said. Why else would she open fire on a pair of outstanding citizens in a public garage?

They started walking, tracing the route Ginger Wright had taken in her flight.

Christ almighty, Brinker said. I thought women only carried Mace.

At this point, Buddha said, I am more concerned about the police than her method of self-preservation.

They stopped on Main Street with their backs to the three-story building where Brinker worked and stared at the bulk of the Hotel Bethlehem. The street that ran past the Moravian settlement toward the Hill to Hill Bridge appeared deserted, not a flicker of taillights at this hour to show where the owner of the rival ad agency had fled.

Brinker shook, from cold or adrenalin, he couldn’t tell. He gazed past the hotel with its ancient brick façade and pinprick lights in its arching windows and remembered the last time he’d gotten himself in a jam like this, when an assassin he’d hired came gunning for him in a deserted sandpit. He’d run so hard he could have swallowed a lung.

No more, Brinker said as they walked past wrought-iron tables and chairs to the car they’d left in front of the Italian restaurant. You said when we got into this there’d be no violence.

Buddha used a remote to unlock the door of the Lincoln. It is a little late for that, my friend.

2.

Five weeks earlier

HOW ARE WE doing with our little project?

Danni Ashton Rizzetto crossed a pair of polished legs and leaned into a chair that cost more than Brinker made in a week. She had a well-muscled body with long earlobes that dangled with jewelry. Add the slave bracelet on her left wrist and she looked like a Titian with half the calories.

They sat on the second floor of a former carpet company that overlooked the historic district in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, population 75,000, give or take a few gangbangers rolling college students who wandered off the Lehigh campus.

Brinker looked through the notch in the desk and admired her knees. From a back pocket he slid a narrow notebook left over from his days as a reporter, one of the few things from that era that didn’t carry the stink of shame, and cleared his throat. I’m still working on Crane.

The CEO of DAR Marketing & Public Relations tossed a curtain of blond hair from her eyes with an effortless tick of her head. What’s the problem?

He doesn’t think he’s in danger.

She tapped a set of long red nails on the desk. I thought you had connections with the criminal classes.

Brinker tried to swallow the knot in his throat. Because of that crap with the serial killer?

Because you used to work as a reporter.

Danni smiled. She had a broad mouth, thin nose and Kirk Douglas dimple in her chin that somehow worked with the biceps she’d developed at the gym, or in Pilates, a class she attended more faithfully than her husband Rizz attended mass. The silver chain around her neck plunged into cleavage with infinite possibility. Or trouble. Brinker wanted to swallow a fistful of tranquilizers and lay his head in her lap. Except that Rizz would castrate him and then he’d have to work in PR for the rest of his life.

She crossed her legs in the other direction and didn’t bother to adjust the dress. "Don’t look so stricken. You got a lot of media coverage for Col. Mabry’s murder tour. And the way you whipped up the press when the serial killer showed, re-enacting the scenes, merchandising the murders. . . . PRWeek should have put you on the cover."

Brinker settled into the black leather couch and looked up at her. Not bad, if you liked habitual liars, which was one of the things that had attracted him to the agency. So what’s the deal? Why are you so hot to get rid of this guy?

Danni put a finger to her lips, the nails the same shade as her gloss. This is confidential, you understand. I don’t want you sharing it with anyone else at DAR.

Brinker held up three fingers. Scout’s honor.

Not even Rizz. He’s the last person I want to know.

I’m discreet with husbands.

She laughed in a burst that made the cords of her neck stand out like bridge cables. I bet you are.

One night in a bar, Brinker had seen her challenge a football player to a pushup contest. She did fifty, half of them one-handed. He wasn’t about to challenge his new boss. Your entire PR department is at your disposal. Since the last round of layoffs, Brinker and a woman who had trouble licking a stamp comprised the agency’s entire PR department.

Danni leaned back and folded her arms, giving him the Victoria’s Secret view. We need to expand if we’re going to grow the business.

Amen to that. He crossed his legs and tented his fingers on a knee in a pose of abject attention, a move his former girlfriend, Carly the amateur thespian, had taught him.

A crease formed between her wide eyes. They were the shade of a very expensive sapphire at Sotheby's. I need to level the playing field.

He stared through the Palladian windows at the bare sky and snow-packed streets, at the few walkers who braved the cold and hoped for spring. Since this was Northeast Pennsylvania in early March, there was little chance, despite what the groundhog said.

Brinker rearranged his hands. So what’s the deal?

Shadows formed under her perfect cheekbones. I want to take out the competition.

His back crawled up his neck and bit him, like a black dog with sharp teeth that wouldn’t let go. He thought about palming a tranquilizer but Danni would ask questions. You mean kill them.

She reared back and laughed as if she’d won the lottery. You would think that, wouldn’t you? Working that bizarre tour of murder sites, laugh out loud.

Brinker’s skin crawled with irritation. We did pretty well.

You got lucky when that serial killer showed up.

Luck had nothing to do with hiring an assassin to euthanize the dying patients of Brinker’s GP, the ironically named Dr. Jolley, but he couldn’t tell her that. Working in this cesspool of venality and greed was punishment enough. He didn’t need to add jail time to the sentence.

He shifted to the edge of the couch. I’m trying to figure this out, Danni. You want to help me here?

I want to assure you this is not a condition of your employment.

I get it. Crane runs a boutique agency, lots of clout for a little guy. Why not just buy him out?

I couldn’t say.

Brinker rose.

Danni slapped a hand on the desk. Sit. Please.

Brinker sat.

When she inhaled, her nostrils thinned to the point of disappearing. I want to expand this agency beyond the U.S. I want to go global. Pitching clients is too time-consuming and, despite what Rizz says, we can’t grow our way out of this recession. We need to speed up the process.

Brinker thought Pinky and the Brain had better ideas for world domination but knew of at least three agencies Danni could acquire to claw her way to the top. He counted the owners on his fingers. Crane, the Boy Scout and Ginger Wright.

She grinned. You catch on fast.

Crane’s regional. He got lucky with the hospital.

He just landed the second-largest pharmacy benefits manager in the nation.

Brinker nodded. He’s digging in his heels.

Then get a bigger shovel.

Miller Rausch is big. Heavy in consumer brands. Lots of national and international clients. Alan Miller’s retiring, turning it over to the Boy Scout.

Danni’s frown bunched the skin between her eyes. Your so-called Boy Scout, Peter Rausch, just landed the hockey arena, a telecom company and the only major real estate developer still standing after the Great Recession.

You have to admit, that was a good Super Bowl ad.

I admit nothing.

Brinker thought that sounded like a good policy. He jerked his neck sideways and heard it crack. Last one should be a piece of cake.

You think Ginger Wright’s a pushover?

‘Wright Woman for the Right Job?’ I’ve seen romance novels with more imagination. Retail, insurance, mom-and-pop clients. Most of her staff are 1099s.

She just took the casino and now she’s after the bank.

Didn’t know that. Forget about going global. Lehigh Valley Trust accounted for eighty percent of the agency’s capitalized billings. If it went, so did the rest of the staff.

Danni picked up a pen and touched the tip to the corner of her mouth, something pinup girls might have done when posing for Hef. We used to be the biggest agency in the state and now look at us, playing second fiddle to a bunch of Pennsylvania Dutchies with schnitzel for brains. I’m sick of submitting RFPs and having those three clowns beat our tail on price.

Brinker thought of the luxury cars and gym and golf club memberships and the food and booze she and Rizz socked away, all of it at company expense, but decided to let the IRS deal with it. I get Crane. He’s small, we have leverage. What’s with the other two?

We absorb them.

How?

We acquire their agencies.

Brinker knew how fiercely Miller Rausch was fighting them for the cement company account and snorted. They’re not for sale.

They will be.

When?

As soon as you make their owners disappear.

Brinker listened to the crunch as he shifted his weight and wondered if sex felt better on leather. Maybe it would, unless Rizz walked in. How?

Bribery, blackmail . . . I don’t care. Just work your magic.

What’s your strategy?

She leaned back and pressed her lips until bulges formed in her cheeks. Fear.

That’ll work.

Damned right it will. The owners disappear, the heirs are in shock. They’re confused, they don’t know the business. They just want out. We show up with cash. Even Rizz can’t screw that up.

Brinker leaned into the couch with an air of confidence he didn’t feel. And in return for this disappearing act?

We’ll tell the staff you’re in charge of conquest accounts. I’ll create a payment plan, for you and the owners. Our corporate attorney has drafted an agreement of sale. It’s boilerplate but it should get the ball rolling.

Danni reached over the desk, handed Brinker three folded documents and slipped back into her seat, her legs dangling as she worked the chair side to side.

Brinker looked at her legs and then at the documents. The woman had balls, he’d give her that. What’s the timeline?

I want Crane out by the end of the week, the rest of them in ninety days. There’s another bonus if you do it in less.

And if they don’t want to go?

You’re creative. Improvise.

No violence, right?

I would expect nothing less, Danni said. And try to be discreet.

I am the soul. . . .

She held up fingernails like knife blades. Just don’t screw up. I’ve got enough trouble without having to answer to the police, or Rizz, which is worse, now that I think of it.

Where is your partner?

A shadow darkened Danni’s face and quickly vanished as she stood and rounded her desk with the grace of a figure skater. Out digging up new business, or so he tells me.

Why not let him do this?

Danni snorted. On her, it sounded good. You know Rizz, raging bull in a china shop. He’ll tell them how great he is and be genuinely shocked when they disagree.

Has he talked to the owners yet?

We both did the initial pass, so to speak.

How’d that go? Brinker asked.

They weren’t exactly falling into our laps.

His cologne could gag a runway model.

Danni’s eyes grew large. I beg your pardon.

I was thinking out loud.

I wouldn’t make it a habit of it.

Brinker had a vision of Danni depositing his new bonus in her own account and ratting him out to the cops. He stood and shoved the contracts into a back pocket. What happens after you buy out these guys?

With one hand on the door, she tucked a foot behind her ankle in a pose that showed her leg muscles to great effect. The underlings will need some guidance and we’ll offer it.

And then?

And then I’ll need someone to run those agencies.

Brinker could feel the heat radiating from her body. He didn’t know what to do with his hands so he jammed them under his arms. And aside from the money, that’s the bonus?

Danni fished a diamond pendant from the end of the silver chain and dangled it. One of them . . . if you’re a good boy.

And if I’m not?

Then I turn you in for opiate abuse.

His cheeks grew hot. Sweat pricked his upper lip. She stared at him, her eyes hard, the faintest trace of a smile creasing her lips. He had no doubt she would.

He took a breath. You’re sure this is going to work.

She gave him a radiant smile that showcased a row of glistening teeth and laid cool fingers on his wrist. Would I lie to you?

3.

CARLY BREEZED INTO the branch office of Lehigh Valley Trust on skyscraper heels, tailored gray suit over a royal blue blouse, three strings of pearls and earrings to match. Twenty-seven degrees and snow blowing sideways and she’d dressed for Shakespeare in the Park.

Tossing her brown hair and a high-five at Brinker, she swept by with an entourage of agency drones, Mario Rizzetto and Theresa Thomas bringing up the rear.

Brinker didn’t know why his boss and the bank’s senior VP for marketing wanted to watch them shoot a commercial, although the look on Rizz’s face as he followed Thomas told him everything. They were an odd couple by any standard, Rizz with his bootblack hair, wire mustache and linebacker body stuffed into an Armani suit; Mother Theresa with raccoon eyes, tomato lips and sunken cheeks, the aging fashion model riding on a pair of stiletto-heeled boots.

What a dog. Brinker should be so lucky.

When he’d called Carly last night, she’d said she had a speaking part in the video, Carly answering her phone for the first time in weeks, still pissed he’d almost gotten her fired from her job at the courthouse.

What kind of video? Brinker said.

Don’t you agency people ever talk to each other?

The creative director’s too busy going down on Rizz.

Carly exhaled loudly. I’m so glad you haven’t changed.

Brinker knew sarcasm when he heard it, although it sounded better coming from himself than others.

The commercial would show a handsome young loan officer offering a mortgage to a Latino couple and a teller discussing account options with a senior citizen. Carly said the video would show the human side of banking.

There is no human side to banking.

Brinker, I’m hanging up.

Wait, he said. So as director of marketing, you’re playing the host.

They needed a trustworthy face.

Where do we send the Oscar?

She’d hung up.

Now, as the lobby doors swung open to send a draft of ice up his pant legs, Brinker wondered if Carly would ever agree to see him again. He moved toward the camera and watched the makeup guy brush her cheeks, Carly with her chin tilted up, eyes closed, a smile forming small brackets at the corners of her mouth. He hadn’t seen that smile since Christmas.

One of the people she came in with, a thirtysomething in a white shirt and tie, Brinker recognized as a member of the Lehigh Valley Players, Carly’s theatrical troupe, the nomads looking for a permanent home. In the back stood an old lady and a couple who looked as if they modeled for Target.

Carly with the soft heart, providing