And so Eliot became Eliot Arnold Advertising and Public Relations, working out of a small office in Coconut Grove. At the beginning, he spent most of his time going around begging people to become his clients. But after a couple of years of hard work, he'd reached the point where he spent most of his time going around begging for his clients to pay the money they owed him. Either that, or he was listening to clients tell him why his work was not acceptable. This is what the Client From Hell was doing.

The Client From Hell's latest brainstorm was Hammerhead Beer, which tasted so awful that the first and only time Eliot put some in his mouth, he spat it out on his desk. Eliot thought Hammerhead Beer was an even worse idea than the Client From Hell's previous project, a theme park for senior citizens called Denture Adventure.

But the Client From Hell actually paid his bills some of the time, so Eliot had developed an advertising concept for the beer. The Client From Hell was looking at it, and offering his usual thoughtful brand of criticism.

"This sucks," he said.

"Well, Bruce," said Eliot, "I tried to…»

"Listen," said the Client From Hell, who did not believe in letting other people finish their sentences as long as he had any kind of thought whatsoever floating around in his brain. "You know what my business philosophy is?"

I surely do, thought Eliot. Your business philosophy is to take money from your extremely wealthy father and piss it away on moronic ideas.

"No, Bruce," he said, "what is your…»

"My business philosophy," said the Client From Hell, "is that there's a lot of people in the world."

To illustrate this point, the Client From Hell gestured toward the world. Several moments passed, during which Eliot waited hopefully for amplification.

"Well," Eliot said, finally, "that's certainly…»

"And," continued the Client From Hell, who had been waiting for Eliot to speak so he could interrupt him, "all those people WANT something. You know what they want?"

"No," said Eliot. His plan was to go with short sentences.

"They want to feel good," said the Client From Hell.

More moments passed.

"Ah," said Eliot.

"Do you know what I mean? said the Client From Hell. He stared at Eliot.

"Well," said Eliot, "I…»

"NO YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I MEAN!" shouted the Client From Hell, feeling better now that he was bullying a person who needed his money, which was his absolute favorite thing about being rich. "Because I gave you the perfect concept for Hammerhead Beer. The perfect concept! Which is not this piece of shit here." He made a brushing-away gesture, the kind you make at flying insects, in the direction of Eliot's concept, which Eliot had stayed up late working on. It was a board on which Eliot had mounted a close-up photograph of a hammerhead shark, its mouth gaping between its two impossibly far-apart, alien eyeballs. Underneath the photograph, in large, black type, were these words:

"What the hell is this?" the Client From Hell demanded. "Why are you saying ugly here?"

"Well," said Eliot, "I'm contrasting, in a kind of humorous…»

"Listen," said the Client From Hell, whose idea of humor was — he had this on video, and watched it often — Joe Theisman getting the bottom half of his leg almost snapped off. "I don't want to see ugly. That is not the feeling I want. I gave you the concept already! I gave you the perfect concept!"

"Bruce, I talked to a lawyer about your concept, and he says we could get into real trouble with…»

'"GET HAMMERED WITH HAMMERHEAD! " shouted the Client From Hell, pounding a pudgy Rolexed fist on Eliot's desk. "That's the concept!"

He stood up and spread his fat arms apart, to help Eliot visualize it. "You have a guy in a boat with a girl, she's in a bikini, she has big tits, they're on a boat, and they're getting hammered! With Hammerhead! The feeling of this ad is, somebody's gonna get laid! In the background swimming around is a shark! The girl has REALLY big tits! It's PERFECT! I give you this perfect concept, and you give me ugly! Listen, if you think I'm paying for this shit, forget it, because I'm not paying for ugly. I can get ugly for free."

You already are ugly, Eliot thought. What he said was: "OK, let me try to…»

"Don't tell me try. Don't try. I hate the word try. Try is for losers," said the Client From Hell, who got his entire philosophy of life from Nike commercials. "Lemme tell you something." He was tapping his finger on Eliot's desk (his fingernails were fat). "You are not the only ad agency in this town."

I am the only ad agency in this town who is so far behind on his alimony that he will tolerate a moron of your magnitude, thought Eliot.

"OK, Bruce," he said.

"I wanna see it TOMORROW," said the Client From Hell.

I could get a gun by tomorrow, thought Eliot. With those hollowpoint bullets.

"OK, Bruce," he said.

The phone rang. Eliot picked it up.

"Eliot Arnold," he said.

"I need to borrow your car tonight," said Matt, who was Eliot's son and seventeen years old, which meant that he was usually too busy to say hello.

"Hello, Nigel!" said Eliot. "How're things in London? Can you hold for a moment?"

"Nigel?" said Matt.

"Brace," Eliot said to the Client From Hell, "I need to take this call from a client in London about…»

"I wanna see it tomorrow, and it better be right," said the Client From Hell, banging open Eliot's door, walking out, not closing the door. From the hall — from right outside the next-door office of the certified public accountant who complained whenever Eliot played his stereo — he shouted: "AND SHE BETTER HAVE BIG TITS!"

"Thanks for coming by, Brace!" Eliot called to the empty doorway. "I think we're almost there!" To the phone he said: "Matt?"

"Who better have big tits?" asked Matt.

"Nobody," said Eliot.

"Who's Nigel?" asked Matt.

"Nobody," said Eliot. "I made Nigel up so my client wouldn't think I was interrupting a meeting for personal business."

"Was that the beer moron?"

"Yes."

"Whyn't you just dump him?" asked Matt.

"Matt," Eliot said, "do you have any idea where money comes…»

"So," said Matt, who was not about to waste valuable non-school time listening to a lecture he'd already heard, "can I borrow your car tonight?"

"What for?" asked Eliot.

"Me and Andrew have to kill a girl," said Matt.

"OK," said Eliot, "but I want the car back at my apartment by ten-thirty, and I want you to promise to drive…»

"OK thanks Dad," said Matt, hanging up, a busy man.

"… carefully," said Eliot, into the silent phone.

When she finished cleaning up after dinner, Nina went back to her room — it was called the "maid's quarters," but it was just a little room with a tiny bathroom — and locked the door. She'd started locking it about three months earlier, when Mr. Herk had walked in on her. Nina was getting undressed, down to her bra and panties. Mr. Herk had not knocked; he'd just opened the door and come in.

He was holding a glass of red wine. Nina snatched her robe from the bed and held it in front of herself.

"It's OK, Nina," he said. "I just wondered if you'd like a little wine. You work so hard."

Nina knew he didn't care how hard she worked. She knew what he wanted, because of the way he looked at her sometimes, especially when he was drinking. He liked to come into the kitchen when she was there alone and stand a little too close to her, not saying anything, just looking at her.

Holding the robe close to herself, she said, "No, thank you, Mr. Herk. I am very tired."

He closed the door behind him and moved toward her. "You just need to relax," he said. He put his hand on her bare shoulder and let it slide toward her breast. His hand was wet with sweat.