Chapter 3

Jessica identified herself to the uniformed night guard at Marty Felder's Madison Avenue agency address; the old man said nothing, but gave her a knowing wink as he motioned toward the elevators. Obviously, after- hours visitors were not out of the ordinary for Felder, something she could have guessed quite easily without the old man's help.

The agency door was open when she stepped from the elevator car at the thirteenth floor; down the long open central room she could see a couple of young men, most likely copywriters, at work at a large desk in the back. Behind them was a cork storyboard, with paste-up drawings of the television commercial frames yet to be filmed. They were using a small Sony tape recorder, and the peppy jingle sounded odd and out-of- place, somehow out of context. Marty's door was open, too-that was something she'd noticed about advertising agencies, people seldom worked behind closed doors. She didn't know whether to attribute that to a convivial sense of sharing, or if the well-known agency "pirating" was more likely the reason for giving no one cause to be suspicious.

Felder was up and out of his chair before Jessica reached the doorway. "Hello, luv'," he greeted her, "I was just finishing up. Let's go out through the parking garage and I'll get out of these work clothes." Jessica thought his outfit was more than adequate for anything going at this hour in New York, but she didn't question him.

"Sure. Anything you say." The two young men in the back of the main work room, their slightly-long hair over their expensive collars, glanced up, frozen in mid-stride, for a moment. The raucous, tiny jingle blared on; then after smiling knowingly they went back to their work.

Felder led the way down the darkened corridor, past the brightly- decorated offices of the creative staff of Hartfield and Marsh. Jessica tried to steal a quick glance into the empty offices as they hurried past; many of the walls were covered with color eight by ten's of models for the agencies various accounts-models like herself. Or like she wanted to be.

"My car's in the basement," said Felder, "Why don't you go on down. It's a Cadillac... Eldorado. It's safe down there, lots of lights, and a night attendant. Just tell him you're looking for my car. I've got to stop by the sixteenth floor and use the telex line. But only for a minute, okay? Be right there." And with that, he left the elevator and she was alone again. When the car reached its destination and the doors opened again, she discovered she was in a cavernous, neon-lit basement garage, all purple and humming from the thin tubes that lined the ceiling. Another guard, almost identical to the one she'd first encountered on coming in from Madison Avenue, stirred from his folding aluminum chair when the metal doors whirred open.

"Yes, Ma'am, can I help you," he offered politely, smiling rather mechanically.

"Mr. Felder told me to wait for him here... in his car."

"Yes, Ma'am," said the guard, "it's over there. The dark green one."

Jessica thanked him and followed his directions to a Forest Green Eldorado and climbed in. She nestled down in the luxurious interior, surrounded by yards of natural leather; even the smell of the car was rich. It felt oddly homey and familiar, as if a car like this was where she had belonged all along. She had turned the collar of her coat up and was sitting with her eyes closed when Felder arrived.

"Like it. baby?" he asked, standing in the splash of multi-colored lights that lit-up instantly when he opened the door.

"Yes, it's beautiful. But it must have cost a lot of money," she said rather innocently.

"Yeah, but it's worth it. When you've got a job like mine, first impressions mean a lot. You'd be surprised how many people judge a man by the car he drives."

"Yes... I suppose so."

After crossing town, knifing through the early evening traffic like an expensive cruiser cuts through water, they entered another underground garage, waiting for the gates to electrically open after Marty had pressed the button installed under the left side of the Cadillac's dash.

"Radio-controlled," he said by way of explanation.

Jessica only nodded, looked up with her neck craned for a better look at this frightfully expensive looking apartment building near the south end of Central Park. She wasn't certain exactly where, for she had become lost in the quick series of corners they'd taken from Madison Avenue.

The elevator door was open for them, and in a few quick moments, they were on the twenty-third floor. When they were in the entry hallway, Jessica glanced around, wondering which of the four doorways was Felder's. She eyed the nameplates of each, but none gave her a clue... Robbins, Saperstein, Alexander, and Van Root.

"No, not here. We've got one more elevator to take," said Felder. It was only then that Jessica noticed the steel-blue doors of the second elevator; but this one had no call buttons to push, only a keyed plate midway up the wall beside the doors. Marty inserted a key from his key- ring and turned it halfway. The doors opened with an electronic noise like something out of a spy-thriller movie; bright light spilled out into the corridor.

"Hop aboard. It's the Felder Express," he laughed.

Jessica stepped inside and watched curiously as he pressed the sole button, marked "P." Only then did she realize Marty Felder owned the penthouse.

His condominium apartment was immense, even for this plush section of New York, and from any of his four terraces, there was a spectacular view of the world's number one city by night. Looking out over the sparkling lights, you could almost forget about the crime and abuse, the filth and pollution that had scarred New York like the ravages of leprosy. Jessica stood by the railing, breathing in the cool night air that seemed somehow less dirty now that night had hidden the belching Con Edison smokestacks and the millions of reeking exhaust pipes in a mantle of darkness.