mean, we’re not getting them? I authorized the order months ago. “
“Yes, sir. But—but…”
Stein launched into an explanation that started with a series of tornadoes destroying dozens of greenhouses and ended with a freak hailstorm trapping a huge cargo plane on a runway.
Midway through, Marco held up his hand.
“Get to the point,” he snapped. “How many orchids are we getting?”
“None.”
Marco could feel his mouth drop open. “None?”
“That’s right. None.”
“Let me be sure I understand this. Today is Monday. The official opening of Twenty-two Pascal is two days away. The mayor will be there. So will NBC, ABC, FOX and CBS. Vanity Fairis sending a photographer.”
“Yes, sir. I know. But—”
“But,” Marco said in a low voice that drained the final bit of color from Stein’s face, “all anyone will see is an eighteen-foot-square glass room filled with rows of glass risers topped by white ceramic vases filled with… nothing.
Stein’s Adam’s apple made a noticeable up-and-down track above his dark blue tie.
“I could probably find other flowers.”
“But not orchids.”
“No. White flowers.”
“What kind of white flowers?”
Stein’s Adam’s apple moved again.
“Well, if I ordered from several dealers, I could mix them. You know. Roses. Tulips. Carnations. Carnations are easy to come by.”
“You’ll be suggesting daisies next,” Marco said coldly, rubbing the nape of his neck as he paced the length of his office. “Dammit,” he said, swinging toward the hapless designer, “the whole idea was to provide drama. Visual and aesthetic impact. Elegance.”
Stein nodded. “I know.”
“There must be some other way to do it.”
“How about—how about installing a pond? Maybe a waterfall. Some fish…”
Marco’s glower silenced him.
“Birds,” Stein said after a couple of seconds. “White bamboo cages full of—what are those big white birds? Cockatoos.”
“This is a building, not a zoo! Come up with another idea. What about something you’ve done before in—where was it you worked? Chicago?”
“Yes. Chicago.” Stein’s face lit. “I did a terrific display in a big department store.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it was seasonal. It was, uh, it was Christmas.”
“This is September,” Marco said coldly.
“Halloween is coming. Thanksgiving—”
“Pumpkins and turkeys? Get hold of yourself, man! This is not a shopping mall: it is a historic building saved from being razed. I told you what I wanted almost six months ago: a construct that would push back the noise and smells of the streets. Offer tranquility in the midst of a city. An urban oasis.”
“I understood the concept, sir. It was why I suggested the orchids. I’d created something similar in the foyer of a concert hall in Chicago. The papers dubbed it an urban island.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it wouldn’t apply here. I’m not even suggesting that it would—”
“What was it?” Marco said sharply.
“I used candles. All sizes, all shapes—all of them electric,” he added quickly, when Marco raised his eyebrows. “There was no danger of fire. And in the center, a Steinway grand.”
“A what?”
“A piano. One of those big things you see at concerts. The pianist wore a tux. The real deal, you know, a black tux, the coat with that funny-looking split tail—”
“A white grand piano,” Marco said slowly.
“No, sir. It was black—”
“A white piano. The white vases on the glass risers, the vases filled with tall glass candles and alternating with tall white—”
“Lilies,” Stein said excitedly. “White candles. White lilies. White piano. A guy in a white tuxedo.”
“A woman,” Marco said, “in a white evening gown.”
Stein nodded his head furiously. “Yes, sir! That would work. We already have the vases. I can get the candles, no sweat. And flowers—we won’t need anywhere near as many since we’re also using candles. As for the
“Yes, sir. But—but…”
Stein launched into an explanation that started with a series of tornadoes destroying dozens of greenhouses and ended with a freak hailstorm trapping a huge cargo plane on a runway.
Midway through, Marco held up his hand.
“Get to the point,” he snapped. “How many orchids are we getting?”
“None.”
Marco could feel his mouth drop open. “None?”
“That’s right. None.”
“Let me be sure I understand this. Today is Monday. The official opening of Twenty-two Pascal is two days away. The mayor will be there. So will NBC, ABC, FOX and CBS. Vanity Fairis sending a photographer.”
“Yes, sir. I know. But—”
“But,” Marco said in a low voice that drained the final bit of color from Stein’s face, “all anyone will see is an eighteen-foot-square glass room filled with rows of glass risers topped by white ceramic vases filled with… nothing.
Stein’s Adam’s apple made a noticeable up-and-down track above his dark blue tie.
“I could probably find other flowers.”
“But not orchids.”
“No. White flowers.”
“What kind of white flowers?”
Stein’s Adam’s apple moved again.
“Well, if I ordered from several dealers, I could mix them. You know. Roses. Tulips. Carnations. Carnations are easy to come by.”
“You’ll be suggesting daisies next,” Marco said coldly, rubbing the nape of his neck as he paced the length of his office. “Dammit,” he said, swinging toward the hapless designer, “the whole idea was to provide drama. Visual and aesthetic impact. Elegance.”
Stein nodded. “I know.”
“There must be some other way to do it.”
“How about—how about installing a pond? Maybe a waterfall. Some fish…”
Marco’s glower silenced him.
“Birds,” Stein said after a couple of seconds. “White bamboo cages full of—what are those big white birds? Cockatoos.”
“This is a building, not a zoo! Come up with another idea. What about something you’ve done before in—where was it you worked? Chicago?”
“Yes. Chicago.” Stein’s face lit. “I did a terrific display in a big department store.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it was seasonal. It was, uh, it was Christmas.”
“This is September,” Marco said coldly.
“Halloween is coming. Thanksgiving—”
“Pumpkins and turkeys? Get hold of yourself, man! This is not a shopping mall: it is a historic building saved from being razed. I told you what I wanted almost six months ago: a construct that would push back the noise and smells of the streets. Offer tranquility in the midst of a city. An urban oasis.”
“I understood the concept, sir. It was why I suggested the orchids. I’d created something similar in the foyer of a concert hall in Chicago. The papers dubbed it an urban island.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it wouldn’t apply here. I’m not even suggesting that it would—”
“What was it?” Marco said sharply.
“I used candles. All sizes, all shapes—all of them electric,” he added quickly, when Marco raised his eyebrows. “There was no danger of fire. And in the center, a Steinway grand.”
“A what?”
“A piano. One of those big things you see at concerts. The pianist wore a tux. The real deal, you know, a black tux, the coat with that funny-looking split tail—”
“A white grand piano,” Marco said slowly.
“No, sir. It was black—”
“A white piano. The white vases on the glass risers, the vases filled with tall glass candles and alternating with tall white—”
“Lilies,” Stein said excitedly. “White candles. White lilies. White piano. A guy in a white tuxedo.”
“A woman,” Marco said, “in a white evening gown.”
Stein nodded his head furiously. “Yes, sir! That would work. We already have the vases. I can get the candles, no sweat. And flowers—we won’t need anywhere near as many since we’re also using candles. As for the
Similar Books
