A head-shrinker once explained to me that people confronted with a
crisis act exactly like a J-walker about to be run down by a car. They
do one of three things. Either they dodge back to the curb, or stand
helpless, or turn on full steam and sprint ahead. Lennox was the third
type. When the evidence in his gimmick book finally convinced him that
he was next Sunday's victim, he refused to retreat or submit. He turned
on full steam and sprinted toward disaster.
He returned to the show conference and forced himself to participate
until it was over. He issued blanket invitations for the party at Rox
Studios, left Grabinett's office and called Sergeant Fink from a phone
booth. Fink was not at the precinct. Lennox said he would call again,
went out and consulted the phone directory. There were a dozen Knotts
in the Manhattan book. There were many more in Brooklyn, Queens and the
Bronx. None of the names looked even faintly familiar. Lennox got back
into the booth and called one at random. A man answered the phone.
"Is Mr. Knott there, please?"
"This is Knott. Who's calling?"
"Jordan Lennox."
"Who?"
"Jordan Lennox."
"What number are you calling?"
Lennox gave the number.
"You got the right number, Mister, but I think you got the wrong party."
"You don't know me?"
"No. Should I?"
"If you've been writing me letters, you should. You--" Lennox stopped.
The man had hung up. Lennox started to dial another Knott and then
quit. "Am I crazy?" he asked himself. "I can't get anywhere this way."
He left the phone booth, went out into the street and realized
that he felt steady and solid as rocks. The uncertainty was ended.
Lennox walked a few blocks while he examined himself in his new role
of victim, then went over to Houseways, Inc. and picked up Gabby
Valentine. He chattered exuberantly during the cab ride to Rox,
concealing the discovery he had just made and the driving resolution
it had brought about in him. He was not ready to reveal the crisis to
Gabby until he had lived with it a little longer.
Rox Studios on West 50th Street occupied the top floor of an ancient
loft building. It was decorated in Industrial Modern with aerial
photomurals, phallic light fixtures, and blond functional furniture.
There were offices, recording studios, stock rooms, and an impressive
reception room which had been taken over by a catering company. Over
the bar and hors-d'oeuvre tables were hung giant blow-ups of the great
hit records of the past. "We're The Most" was also prominent. Cameramen
were arranging celebrities in groups. Flash bulbs were flaring.
On the surface, all cocktail parties are alike. You find the
conventional percentages of pretty girls, pretty boys, big wheels,
nobodys, name-droppers, and the ubiquitous scrawny woman who drinks too
much, insults too much, throws up too much and has to be taken home.
It's the lower levels that distinguish one party from another, but on
The Rock the lower levels are exposed, and consequently the percentages
turn into the deludeds, the hostiles, the compulsives, the persecuteds,
the insecures and the harassed.
If your eye is trained you can see their frantic gyrations as they
jostle and balance on their tightropes over their chasms. If your ear
is sharp you can hear their bedevilments through the brittle glitter of
the talk ... whispering with ghost voices like a badly tuned radio.
In the midst of all this, Cooper, who was usually so casual and
carefree, stood rigid with terror. He was learning the bitter lesson
that is taught on The Rock ... that ambition besets us with many
dangers to be fought and survived, and one of the greatest dangers
is success. It's dangerous because it focuses attention, and the
successful man becomes a new target for the attacking pirates.
As a nobody on The Rock, Cooper had been living in happy obscurity,
ignored by the poison eaters. Now he was spotlighted and they declared
open season on him. The Ned Bacons cut him down to their size. The Mig
Masons resented his claim on their exclusively owned limelight. The
pretty girls took hold to climb over him to fresh heights. The pretty
boys saw in him another celebrated name to drop and to bitch. The
property owners marked him for future possession. And all this took
place under the surface of the congratulations and compliments, like a
poison ring inside a Borgia hand-clasp.
The first opportunity he had after the formal congratulations, Lennox
whispered: "Sam, I'd never bring it up at this time, but I've got to
work fast. I've found out the letters were written to me."
"Letters?" Cooper was bewildered.
"The threats. You recognized the writing. Have you remembered who it is
yet?"
Cooper passed his hands over his face. "No, Jake. No. I.... No."
"Listen. I know who's writing them. Knott. The Quaker, the blonde and
the knot. Remember? Knott's the name of the writer. Does that ring a
bell?"
Cooper shook his head. He didn't appear to be understanding Lennox.
"Between the name and the writing we ought to be able to find him, Sam.
Not now, of course, but maybe...."
"Jake. Leave me alone, will you. I can't help you. I'm in a bad way."
"Sure. I'm sorry. Enjoy yourself, boy. I'm cheering in your corner."
Cooper laughed pointlessly and a trifle hysterically. He was so
completely unstrung that his first conversation with Gabby hardly made
any sense at all. She had waited for a break in the ring around him and
then came up to him with outstretched hand. Cooper at once took her to
a corner and stared at her distractedly.
"Do you trust me?" he asked suddenly.
"Of course," Gabby answered. "I like to trust people."
He looked into her dark eyes. "Yes. You're one of the honest ones,
aren't you. Inside-outside girls."
"I think you've been drinking too much, Sam."
"I like the way you say Sam. No, I'm not drunk. I'm possessed. I meant
your inside and outside match. Both beautiful."
"Oh. Yes, my plumbing is the envy of all the doctors."
"Are you in love with Jake?"
"I don't know. It's too violent yet."
"He's violent." Cooper nodded emphatically. "Dangerous. Do you think
it'll be love after the frenzy?"
"I want it to be. Very much."
"Can I call you Gabby?"
"Please."
"Listen to me, Gabby. Go away. Get out of Jake's life. Run like hell."
She looked at him steadily without answering.
"Maybe you can come back another time, but now, keep away from him."
"I think you'd better say more, Sam."
"I can't."
"Then you should have said less."
"Are you offended?"
"A little. You don't approve of me."
"It isn't that."
"Then you'd better explain what you mean."
"How can I? This is something that has to be between Jake and me."
"You don't like me," Gabby said with conviction. "Are you jealous?
Aren't you willing to share him with me?"
"Will you share him with himself?"
"I really think you've been drinking too much, Sam. You aren't making
sense."
"How can I make sense? Look at me. Somebody threw me into the water.
I'm trying to learn how to swim before I drown. I've got just enough
breath left to shout a warning to you. I'm shouting, Gabby."
Suidi, _Le Jazz Hot_, came up to get Cooper. As he led him away to be
photographed again, Cooper called over his shoulder: "I'm shouting,
Gabby. Listen to me."
"What's he shouting?" Lennox asked, appearing out of the crush with
canapes.
"A long locomotive for Lennox. He admires you, Jordan."
"You talked him into it. He's just the tool of a beautiful dame."
"Yes, I am rather fatal. It's a dreadful responsibility. Who's the
little man who told me he married eighteen feet of wives?"
"Ned Bacon, my partner."
"Did he really?"
"Yep. Three six foot show girls, one after the other."
"What an extensive married life. Who's the dark quiet man who stammers?"
"Johnny Plummer."
"And the bald man who sounds like a subway train? The one who's been
pestering Sam."
"Tooky Ween, Mason's agent. He wants Sam to sign with him."
"They're all very nice," Gabby said. "But they all seem self-conscious.
Like Roy. They live in the third person."
"Live in the third person?"
"Haven't you noticed? It was never 'I'm doing this' or 'I'd like that'
with Roy. It was always 'Roy Audibon is getting an idea' or 'Roy
Audibon would like a drink.' He was his own audience. What was the
matter with you in the taxi, Jordan?"
She took the wind out of him. He could never accustom himself to the
sudden corners in her conversation. Each time he imagined he had
concealed something from her, she waited patiently and then came around
a corner unexpectedly into the heart of the concealment.
"Was it anything to do with the enemies you were talking about?" she
asked.
"Yes," he said. "That's it exactly."
"Do you want to talk about it now?"
"Let's find a place."
They pushed through the crowd. The party was getting high and many
men laid loving hands on Gabby. When she gently disengaged herself,
they persisted in following her, offering drinks, cigarettes, canapes,
conversation, or any other service she required. Lennox was annoyed and
reminded of the three men at the McVeagh party who had offered to take
the drunken professor home for her. Gabby couldn't help acquiring a
coterie of men anxious to make themselves useful.
Suidi's private office was jammed. _Le Jazz Hot_ goggled at Lennox and
waved to him, excitedly trying to thank him. Lennox shook his head in
warning and left. He and Gabby tried the stock rooms. They were all
occupied. In a wrapping room stacked with acetate blanks were Cooper
and Tooky Ween. Cooper was flustered and almost incoherent. Ween was
aggressive.
As Lennox was about to withdraw, he heard Ween say: "Then we got to
work up some other kind of financial arrangement on our tune." Jake
stopped and squeezed Gabby's elbow in warning.
"What was that line.... 'Our tune'?" he asked.
"I just been talking sense to your friend," Ween rumbled. "Only he
can't count the fingers in front of his eyes."
"I'm in no condition to sign with anybody," Cooper pleaded. "Don't be
mad, Tooky. Let it go at that."
"I ain't mad, boy, but you need handling. It's handling that makes the
difference between a property and a non-property."
"I don't want to be property. I don't want any part of this crazy
hassle. Now leave me alone, will you Tooky? I'm wrung out."
"I'm trying to do this so nobody hollers for a lawyer letter," Ween
said. "If your friend--"
"His name is Cooper. Sam Cooper."
"If your friend'll let me do some good for him, then it's all in the
family and no hard feelings."
"What's in the family?"
"Our tune."
"What means 'Our tune'?"
"He says Mason collaborated with me," Cooper burst out.
"Oh. I see. You want a piece of the hit, is that it, Tooky?"
"It ain't what I want. It's what's right. My boy helped your friend
write the tune. We're entitled to a piece. Now if your friend wants to
come into the family, then everything's cozy."
"Sure. You cut in for your fifteen percent. What makes you think Mason
collaborated on the tune?"
"I asked him about it."
"When you smelled money."
"He told me it was his idea from the start and he made at least a dozen
contributions when they was working it up in the rehearsal. Out of a
total hundred percent, at least thirty nine and a half percent was my
boy's ideas."
"Your boy suffers from starmania. He thinks everything is his idea. Ask
him sometime. You'll find out he thinks he invented you."
"Oh, for God's sake! Let him have his piece of the tune," Cooper
exclaimed in disgust. "We did do it in rehearsal. I admit Mig made
suggestions. Maybe he did contribute as much as Tooky says. I want to
be honest about this and I'm sick of--"
"Shut your mouth!" Lennox interrupted violently. "Do you want to give
it away to the chiselers?"
"Keep out of this, Jake. Let me handle it."
"You're not fit to handle anything. You'll sell yourself out."
"Maybe that's the best thing for me. Leave me alone."
"What are you trying to do, escape? I will like hell leave you alone."
Lennox turned on Ween. "Listen to me, you shyster. 'We're The Most'
is Sam's tune. One hundred out of one hundred percent. How do I know?
Because I heard him compose it in our house one month before your boy
rehearsed it for the show."
"That's a lie!" Ween roared. "You heard what Cooper just now admitted.
That's a dirty, unethical lie, Lennox!"
"And you're stuck with it. Take us into court and see what happens."
"I don't want to go into court!" Cooper looked around frantically.
"You're right, Jake. All I want is out. Give him his piece of the hit.
Give him the whole damned tune. I'm not cut out for this rat race. For
God's sake, let me out before I turn into a twitch like Blinky."
Lennox shut Cooper up with a wave of his hand. He scowled murderously
at Ween. "Look what you're doing to him, you lousy leech. You sit on
the sidelines waiting for someone to hit, and then you're right in
there bloodsucking. Agents! The pimps of the business! This is my boy,
understand? He worked for this. He sweated for it. He waited for it,
and you're taking nothing from him. Now get the hell out of here and go
shove yourself up your property."
Ween left the wrapping room like a thundercloud. Lennox ignored
him and stepped to Cooper's side. "You stood by me," he growled.
"Now I'm standing by you. If you sign anything away.... If you give
anything away.... If you so much as open your mouth, I'll kill you.
Stop whining. D'you think this is another varsity show? You're doing
business with professional cut-throats. Get the hell out there and face
them."
He pounded Cooper's slack shoulders with his fists, propelled him to
the door and thrust him out. He motioned to Gabby to follow and walked
behind Cooper, forcing him back into the crush. Lennox kept muttering:
"Smile. Grin. Shove it down their throats. They hate your guts. They
hate anybody who gets a break. Well, hate 'em back. Show 'em!"
Lennox patrolled Cooper for a few minutes, showing his teeth in the
icy, cutting smile called The Agency Knife. Then he took Gabby to the
bar for a drink. He was sardonic, hostile, unyielding. Gabby had never
seen him look more dangerous. Once again she was repelled by that
frozen exterior that the business knew so well, but now she knew that
this was only a part of Lennox. She took his arm with both hands and
tugged gently.
"You're frightening me," she whispered. "Stop looking like that,
Jordan. You're like you were in the taxi Christmas night."
"Thieves," Lennox growled. "Killers. Poison eaters! All of them. Trying
to cut Sam's throat. Mine too. I won't let 'em. We'll hold on to our
sanity. All of us. Won't we?" He glared at Gabby.
"Yes, sir, Captain Hook, sir," she quavered.
"And we'll give 'em nothing. Nothing! You hear me, Gabby Valentine?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's my girl. Now let's go find a place and talk."
There were only three people in the smaller sound studio, clustered
around a piano flanked by microphones on stands. A bass fiddle and two
copper-bottomed kettle drums stood in a corner. Still raging, Lennox
stalked in with Gabby and flashed The Agency Knife on the strangers.
"I'd like a word in private with my mother," he said. "Would you mind?
Thanks very much."
The strangers scuttled out and left them alone. Lennox looked through
the glass panel into the control booth where a group of people
soundlessly shouted and gesticulated. He rapped the microphones with
his knuckles.
"Are these live?" he asked. "Control, can you hear me?"
There was no response. He took Gabby by the waist and lifted her onto
the piano, then leaned against her knees and, halfway between fury and
confusion, blurted out the story of the letters. He opened his gimmick
book and showed her the message scrawled in by a person named Knott.
"The Quaker, the blonde and the knot," Lennox said. "It's filled in
now. The knot is a person. Mr. Knott ... a murderous lunatic who knows
me. Maybe it's like you said this morning in the park ... an enemy for
something I don't even remember doing. But he's an enemy all the same.
And I was with him the night before Christmas."
"You don't remember being with him?"
"No. But we must have been together. He left a line for me in the
gimmick book ... a little love note to let me know who to expect
Sunday."
Gabby nodded.
"It's a charming situation, isn't it?" Lennox said. "There's a man
named Knott. I don't know him, but he knows me. First he writes me.
Then he sidles up to me Saturday night and leaves a personal message
where he knows I'll find it sooner or later. He hates me. He wants my
guts cut out. I don't know why, but I don't have to know. He's got his
own crazy reasons. All right, I'm going to find him before Sunday."
"Find him? How?"
"I'm going to backtrack on my trail. I'm going to start at the bar
where I got plastered with Avery Borden Saturday night. I'm going to
start remembering and keep going until I find friend Knott. After I've
had a few words with him, you can come and bail me out."
"I don't think you should. It's Sergeant Fink's job."
"I'll do it myself," Lennox said stubbornly. "If I louse it, I can
always go crying to Fink, but I'm not crying yet. I've got Fink to fall
back on, and Sam, if he can only remember where he saw that writing.
But that comes later. Right now will you let me out of our date
tonight? I want to call Borden and start backtracking now."
"No, I won't," Gabby said. "I'll go with you."
Lennox shook his head.
"I'll go with you," Gabby insisted. "I can help."
"Not in this."
"You'd be surprised the way ladies can help. Anyway I don't want to
bail you out of jail. You need a keeper."
"Listen," Lennox said. "I was dirty drunk that night. God knows what I
did. God knows where I went. I don't want you finding out things about
me. This Knott could turn out to be something so filthy that I--"
The control booth door burst open and banged against the wall.
Grabinett stood in the doorway, blinking hideously. Lennox stared at
him and then into the booth. The group inside was watching the scene
with intense interest. One man was bent over the control panel fiddling
with the Gain knobs.
"So it was you," Grabinett sputtered. "It was you all the time, you
Jesus Almighty hypocrite!"
"Turn off those mikes," Lennox roared at the controls.
"Leave 'em on," Grabinett shouted. "I want witnesses. I got a moral
conduct clause in your contract, Lennox. Remember? I warned you. I
warned you at the office less'n two hours ago. All right. Here it is.
You're fired. You're off the show."
"Did you hear everything I told her?"
"I heard every Almighty thing you told her and you're off the show."
"You heard me say I don't know who's doing this to me and I don't know
why. All I want is a fair shake. Will you stand by me, Mel?"
"I don't care who's doing what to who or for why. I got a client to
consider. I got myself to consider. And I got news for you. If anything
happens Sunday ... anything at all, I'll take it out of you. If the
network or the client cancels, if I suffer any damages of any kind,
I'll take it out of your hide."
"The hell you will."
"The hell I won't. Go home and read your contract, Lennox. Clause
eight. Then you'll make goddam sure nothing happens Sunday." Grabinett
blinked triumphantly. "After you read it you can tear it up, because
right now in front of witnesses I'm telling you ... you're off the show
and that's final!"