Now Willy was a nervous little guy from faulty thyroid but neurotic in a
bearable way. He sounded even more upset than he usually did. I didn't
particularly like him, but he was a topflight illustrator and I liked
the way he drew women, and besides I'd been trying for a year to tag him
for our agency. All the slicker art agencies were after him, that's how
good he was. We'd made the highest bid for him but he still had this bug
in his noodle for free-lancing, which showed he had more business sense
than the rest of his ilk but which wasn't doing my position at the
agency any good. I'd been joed to bag him.
Which was why I hesitated and reconsidered the impulse to brush him off.
This was the first time he had definitely asked to see me. Sunday
midnight is one hell of a time to suddenly decide to see a dogging
agent, but like I said Willy was neurotic. So I just tested the impulse.
"Well, Willy," I said, "I'm pretty busy at the moment looking after the
interests of the agency artists. They always come first, you know. Could
it wait--"
"Jim, I've got to see you. It's--It's driving me nuts trying to figure
out what to do."
"Tax trouble? Or maybe one of your models?"
"No, nothing like that. Listen. Will you come over tonight?"
I let my instincts juggle the stress between pleasure and business. Both
were practical, well-balanced personal interests. The thunderous night
was young and the lady had nice earlobes and my apartment had that
feeling about it. On the other hand the little fair-haired artist was in
a jam and if I played fairy godmom bigger and better apartments and
earlobes were in the offing from the agency.
So I made the mistake of my life.