Page 5 of The Cruiser
Quigley, aka Thomas Quigley, aka TQ, is our devoted assistant. A forty-year-old Peter Pan, with a sly sense of humor and a fine collection of Bespoke suits which has had many a man’s hand down the pant fronts. Some even with his approval.
“Morgan swings for the other team?” I ask.
Vaughn scoffs. “Hardly. According to TQ, he’s got quite the reputation as a lady-killer. You know what to do. Wear a low-cut blouse and get ‘er done.”
A chauvinist, a sexist, and unafraid to be both in today’s PC world, Vaughn never fails to remind me how closing deals with men is just a flash of boob away. Sleeping your way to the top, or at least to the next level, still happens in LA. It will happen for time eternal. I’m not one of those woke women—juicing, unshaven man-haters waving placards at rallies—but I draw the line at poor ethics.
“You of all people should know I don’t do business that way,” I reply in my best reprimanding voice. Vaughn’s made the odd drunken overture and felt the sting of my rejection every time.
At the very least, he owns it.
“Why do you put up with me?” he asks, serious for once.
“Because you’re brilliant in ways I’m not. Because together, we’re better.” And before he can come up with another excuse to delay his departure, I shunt him out of the office he practically lives in with a playful shove. “Go,” I say. “And don’t you dare call me next week. I’ll handle Mr. de Rohan-Chabot all on my own.”
