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dinged a few times last night playing squash courtesy of Jack Perkins,” Clem suddenly remembered. Tara leaned against the counter and folded her arms.
    “And since when did you start playing squash?”
    “I played a bit in college. What’s the big deal?” Clem blew off Tara’s questions as he checked his reflection in the mirror and tightened the Windsor knot in his tie.
    “Jack plays squash?” Tara asked, doubting the truthfulness of Clem’s explanation.
    “Badly. Gotta go.” Clem grabbed his suit jacket and picked up his computer bag.
    “So, you’ve got time to play squash. Huh. No time for dinner with your wife and friends but you’ve got time to play squash,” Tara voiced sarcastically.
    Now it was Clem’s turn to be irritated. “Tara. I’m not really playing squash, I’m playing politics . Jack’s an alibi, I mean, ally.
    “Alibi?” Tara jumped.
    “You know what I meant. I meant ally.”
    “Rather Freudian.”
    “What? Look, I don’t have time for this, Tara.”
    “What’s new? You don’t have time for anything anymore. It’s all work, work, work with you these days.”
    “Like I said, Jack’s an ally and I need all the friends and support I can get now that Fitz has decided to go to war.”
    Clem headed for the garage. Tara was not alert enough for a full-scale argument so early in the day. Anyway, Clem was not playing ball this morning.
    “I’ll tell Lorraine we can’t make it then,” she shouted out dejectedly, conceding defeat.
    Minutes later, Clem was on his usual rush hour route into downtown Minneapolis driving along Interstate 62. And, as always, the sheer volume of traffic slowed his commute to barely a crawl. This was Clem’s time to think in relative peace. No company bullshit, no nagging wife, no meetings. Okay, so Tara wasn’t really a nagger but she was really starting to bug him. He didn’t need to be questioned every time he didn’t call, got home late or had a small red blemish on his skin. Clem’s focus was plainly on the financial security, the prestige and the kudos of Frank Bergenson’s job and Kurt Fitzgerald was now Hell bent on derailing him. He needed a strategy. Winning such a huge account could have a negative effect on the agency’s current roster of business. Clem knew clients got jealous if they felt they weren’t getting the same care and attention they once enjoyed. Every client had now taken a step down the pecking order and there was probably a lot of backchat and politicking going on that he didn’t know about.
    Clem had to be careful not lose the respect and support of the company’s other larger clients. There were three that billed over $50 million annually. Not close to Rebakor’s size but still important clients to keep sweet. Clem wasn’t sure how much influence they might be having or if any personal agendas were factoring into Frank’s decision-making process.
    Clem had to find out what these guys were thinking. God, this company politics bullshit was so damn time-consuming. It was an ego war. Clem’s jaw started to clench.
    The traffic started to pick up and the wheels of Clem’s S600 began to turn quicker. Yes, a strategy was needed: Plan A with a solid Plan B backup. Maybe a Plan C too, come to think of it. But what about Fitz? Which board members was he in bed with? That sneaky bastard could be pulling any kind of stunts behind Clem’s back. Maybe Fitz was merely a puppet being manipulated from above. Shit, maybe Fitz could meet with a mysterious accident and die an ugly fucking death.
    Clem’s mind started to race faster as his car gained momentum. He had to stop thinking like this. It was annoyingly distracting from his hectic work schedule. He needed to focus on the Rebakor account but his mind couldn’t get off the subject of why Frank was pitting Fitz against him on such an important piece of business. Clem had to stand back and get a perspective on what this really meant. He realized that if he didn’t deal with