Nine o'clock the next morning, Roy Audibon left Gracie Hospital and
took a cab down to the network. His ribs were taped, his face was
bruised, his teeth were clenched in a dazzling smile that was sure to
hurt someone else worse than it hurt him.
He rode the exclusive executives' elevator up to the twentieth floor,
strode through the three anterooms guarding the holy of holies, and
entered his office. It was rather ascetic compared to the conventional
top-level decor. It contained a very large English desk paneled with
gold-tooled leather, three Queen Anne armchairs covered with brocade,
two red leather library chairs, a walnut breakfront displaying
Dresden China and a brass microscope, a French stick barometer, a
framed illuminated transparency of M-31, the Andromeda Nebula, and a
constrained water color of Fire Island Beach signed: Valentine.
Audibon examined the picture for a moment, then went to his desk,
thrust aside the mountain of predigested mail, and picked up the phone.
To his secretary he said: "Get me Grabinett and Bleutcher."
"Yes, Mr. Audibon. What Bleutcher is that, please?"
"Tom Bleutcher of Mode Shoes. Brockton, Mass. Check the 'Who He?'
file." Audibon licked his lips. "Everybody on my team is expected to
know the name and number of every player. This advice will be of value
to you in your next job which will start at the end of this week."
The secretary gasped. "I'm sorry, Mr. Audibon. I--"
"Accounting will arrange your severance pay," Audibon interrupted and
hung up. He examined the water color again, remembering a dark girl in
striped clam-diggers and an old shirt knotted under her bosom, sitting
cross-legged on a blazing dune ... a drawing board before her, tilted
on the bleached remains of a driftwood chair ... the tinkle of a brush
washed in a jar of water.
"Never," Audibon said.
The phone rang. He picked it up. "Yes?"
"Mr. Grabinett cannot be reached in his office," the secretary reported
in a suppressed voice that soothed Audibon. "Mr. Bleutcher cannot be
contacted in Brockton. I left word that you called."
"Word is too little and too late. Keep trying for both."
"Yes, Mr. Audibon. John Macro is waiting to see you."
"Macro? By appointment?"
"Yes, Mr. Audibon. You told me to--"
"Send him in."
For a man who was not in the business, John Macro was the most hated
man in the business. He was a Maryland manufacturer who had taken it
upon himself to cleanse radio and television of subversive artists.
To this he devoted his patriotic heart and ample bank account. Once
a month Mr. Macro came to The Rock and purged. He was in no way
equipped for the job, intellectually or otherwise. In normal times his
impertinent intrusions would have been brushed as contemptuously as Mr.
Macro himself would have brushed any unqualified intruder attempting
to tell him how to do his own thinking; but these were not normal times.
Honest John came to The Rock and studied the reports of his researchers
who were mostly free-lance trade journal writers playing detective.
He learned that so-and-so had once signed a petition. He ferreted out
the fact that a certain man was known to have supported a particular
drive; that this woman had lent her name to such-and-such a cause. Mr.
Macro judged and accused, and such was the hysteria of the times that
mere accusation was enough to make the world draw aside the hem of its
garment in terror and hound the victim out of the business.
Mr. Macro was a good man and a sincere man. Unfortunately he was also
a Square. He believed he was doing his duty as a citizen. Actually, he
was a child playing with a gun. He entered Audibon's office with the
air of a Roman Tribune. He was very bald, very handsome, with a leaden
complexion and kindly features. He carried an alligator portfolio
which he unlocked ceremoniously after he shook hands with Audibon. He
withdrew a short list of names.
"For these," he said melodiously, "I have proof positive." He produced
a dossier of stapled sheets, handed it to Audibon and then seated
himself in a Queen Anne chair and waited majestically.
Audibon read the list of names and then the proof positive. He smiled
at Macro without liking.
"This isn't proof," he said, "and it isn't positive."
"Every organization cited there has been listed by the Attorney
General's office, Mr. Audibon."
Audibon shook his head. "But it's not _prima facie_-type evidence."
"Straws show how the wind blows."
"God help us if we're judged by straws like this."
"Good Heavens! I'm not judging, Mr. Audibon. Far be it from me to
judge my fellow citizens. Let the evidence speak for itself. If I'm
wrong, as I sincerely hope I am, these persons can easily clear
themselves."
"Your frame of reference is unrealistic, Mr. Macro. It's impossible
for any man to clear himself today. These things are chain-reactive."
Audibon flung down the dossier and began to pace energetically. "Touch
the American pulse and what do you find? The systole and diastole
of paranoia. Do you know cybernetics ... the science of minds and
machines? There's a cybernetic feed-back in the American nervous system
today. The average American is synaptically inhibited. He can't believe
in the innocence of a man once he's been accused. He can't believe in
guiltlessness even after acquittal."
Macro stared at Audibon.
"Apart from the issue of freedom of conscience," Audibon went on
passionately, "there's the quanta of Popular Villainism. Literature
went through an Industrial Revolution in this country and was
transformed from an art-form into a story business. The political
thinking was metamorphised the same way. You don't find people weighing
political factors and extrapolating for valued judgements. Savanarola
died in vain. No, our people turn every political issue into Cops And
Robbers ... Boy Meets Girl ... Peter And The Wolf, you should excuse
the expression."
"I'm afraid I don't follow you, Mr. Audibon."
"Peter And The Wolf. Written by a Russian composer named Tchaikovsky,"
Audibon explained patiently. "A musico-political joke."
"But this isn't a question of Russian aliens, Mr. Audibon. It's
simply--"
"It's a question of the write-in habit," Audibon interrupted. "The
basic mistake radio made. Radio tried to bring entertainment into
the home. Then the problem of audience response arose and we had to
encourage the write-in habit for purposes of analysis on a broad
consumer basis. From writing in about products, the public has taken
to writing in about politics. This is one mistake television will not
make. We're not going to bring the show into the home. We're going to
bring the home to the show."
"About these people, Mr. Audibon...."
"I know them all, Mr. Macro. They're artists, all of them; not
necessarily talentwise, but because they have magic. Talent died
with Goethe. These people have theatricality and mesmerization, not
intelligence. Three quarters of them probably did what they did out of
_Gestalt_ ... out of emotions. How can we judge them on the cybernetic
level?"
"Mr. Audibon," Macro said in exasperation. "I'm a business man. Let's
get down to cases. Is your network prepared to suspend the employment
of these subversives, or must I call the attention of our sponsors'
organization to your--"
"This network has never approved of a blacklist, Mr. Macro, and it
never will. If you've come here looking for an official blacklist, you
don't know the temper of our organization. However ... I see no reason
why the artists investigated by you shouldn't be given plenty of free
time to prepare their defense."
Macro looked hard at Audibon. "Then you're prepared to--"
"As good citizens, Mr. Macro, we're not prepared to endorse an official
blacklist. That's final. However, I suggest you monitor our network
shows. If, in the future, you see any of the people on this list
associated in any capacity with any of our shows, you can start a
rhubarb. But until then, as good citizens, we very politely tell you to
go to hell."
Macro flushed and stared at Audibon. Then, as abruptly, he smiled and
nodded. "I think I understand. You have no official blacklist, of
course."
"Of course."
Macro stood up. As he closed his portfolio and was about to lock it,
he hesitated. Then he withdrew a small slip of paper and consulted it.
"Is there a person named Valentine connected with your network?" he
asked.
"Valentine?" Audibon stiffened. "What Valentine?"
"A Miss Gabrielle Valentine. A note here says she might be working in
your art department."
"What about Gabrielle Valentine?"
"My researchers have come across the name quite often. A suspiciously
active person. If she's connected with your organization I should
advise you to have her--"
"She doesn't work for us," Audibon said emphatically. "But we'd hire
her at any time. I happen to know the young woman rather well."
"Oh?"
"I know for a fact that she has clean hands."
"There seems to be evidence to the contrary, Mr. Audibon." Macro
waggled the slip of paper.
"You know I don't spitball off the cuff, Mr. Macro. Take my word for
it. You'll be making a great mistake if you mother-hen any ideas about
Gabrielle Valentine."
Macro looked dubious.
Audibon smiled dazzlingly. "The lady is my wife," he said.
"Good Heavens, Mr. Audibon! I never--The idea is ridiculous, of
course." Macro crumpled the slip and tossed it into a gilt wastepaper
basket.
Audibon took a breath. "But here's a replacement for the name," he
said. "I suggest you touch a piece of litmus paper to a writer named
Lennox, Jordan Lennox. My hunch is it'll turn a bright red."
"Jordan Lennox," Macro repeated, carefully printing the name on a small
pad. He locked the portfolio, shook hands and departed. Audibon picked
the crumpled wad of paper out of the basket, smoothed it and tried to
decipher the symbols and abbreviations following Gabby's name. Then he
placed it inside his wallet. His day was made. He picked up his phone.
"You're back on the payroll, love," he told his secretary. "Keep
trying for Grabinett and Bleutcher. Call Program and notify them we're
cancelling 'Who He?' as of the first of the year."
* * * * *
On the way home from Gabby's studio, Lennox took a wide detour and
stopped off at the Precinct where he found Fink in a small office
that smelled of disinfectant. Fink was doing paper work at a scarred
desk and looked more like a bank clerk than ever. Lennox sat down and
told his story from Cooper's recognition of the handwriting to Aimee
Driscoll's last words the night before. He handed over the page from
his gimmick book that contained the hysterical scrawled message. Fink
was neither impressed nor unimpressed. He listened carefully, smiling
at the wrong times, then bobbed his head.
"I was pretty sure it was you getting the letters," he said.
"How?" Lennox blinked. "I didn't know myself."
"You make the big fuss. You must have known somewhere inside your head."
"You're quite a psychologist."
"No. Strictly statistics. I wish I had a nickel for every guy in a
jam who won't admit it. They make the big fuss and claim they're
worried about somebody else. Turns out they're really stewing about
theirselves."
"I hate like hell to be a statistic, Bob."
"We all are. There's hundreds of laws in the statute books, but cops
depend on one law most of all. The law of averages."
"Is this an average case?"
"It's tough."
"Does any of this stuff I gave you help?"
"Maybe. We'll check. I like what this Cooper said best."
"About having seen the writing before?"
Fink nodded and smiled.
"Why?"
"I'm pretty sure someone on your program is writing the letters. That's
why I like what this Cooper said best."
"Someone on the show?"
"Yeah. Ninety-nine out of a hundred it turns out like that. Someone in
the office. Someone in the factory. Someone in the department store.
We've been going over payroll vouchers and check endorsements on your
program."
"Law of averages again. And?"
"We'll see." Fink smiled. "This Cooper is a good friend of yours, huh?"
"We share an apartment. Why?"
"How long?"
"About a year."
"How long's he been on your program?"
"He's worked the show since it started. Over nine months. What is all
this?"
"You and this Cooper ever fight?"
"Now wait a minute, Bob. I'm no fool. If you're headed in that
direction, I don't buy any of it. Not Sam."
"Funny, this Cooper not remembering where he saw the writing."
"He's got troubles of his own to remember."
"Sometimes a grudge lasts a long time."
"What grudge?"
"You tell me."
"There's nothing to tell. The whole idea's for laughs."
"Tough," Fink murmured.
"Forget Sam, will you! If it has to be someone on the show, maybe it's
a stagehand or a cameraman named Knott. Do we have a Knott on the
payroll?"
"No," Fink said. "That's what makes it tough."
"Can you get me off the hook by Sunday?"
The office door opened and a swarthy man entered briskly. Lennox saw
at once that he was carrying the blue sheets and envelopes of the
threatening letters from "Guess Who." They were stained and discolored
and had been sprayed with a fixative that made them shine. As Lennox
straightened in excitement, Fink spoke.
"Mr. Salerno," he said, "this is Mr. Lennox. He just figured out he's
getting these letters."
Salerno grinned. Lennox was about to speak when suddenly he heard what
Fink had just said. "_Mister_ Salerno," he repeated. "_Mister_ Lennox.
That's the code, isn't it? You're warning him to be careful."
"You see?" Fink said. "It doesn't make any difference if you know.
We're protecting ourselves."
"From me?"
"Not necessarily." Fink stood up. "Now don't worry. We'll try to get
you off the hook by Sunday." He took Lennox to the door and politely
closed it in his face.
Lennox departed, not at all comfortable in his mind, and went home to
change. Cooper was there, in slacks and T-shirt, working feverishly at
the piano. He had a pencil in his mouth, a sheet of manuscript paper
on the music rack, and dozens more scattered around the piano bench.
He was working his way painfully through a chord progression while he
hummed to himself in the high composer's keen that only dogs can hear.
"Fink's crazy," Lennox thought, and resolutely buried the suspicion in
the deepest crevice of his mind.
He tip-toed around the apartment. After he changed, he locked the
Siamese upstairs in his office where they couldn't distract Cooper. He
made fresh coffee and slid a cup against the left side of the music
rack so as not to interfere with Cooper's writing hand. He intercepted
the cleaning woman (this day was vacuum cleaner day for the living
room) and told her to work upstairs first. Exiled from his own office,
he got tools from the kitchen and settled down at the table before the
garden windows to repair his gimmick book.
In some primitive cultures it is believed that a man's soul can be
contained in an object ... an amulet, a bit of stone or wood, a
fetish ... which is carefully concealed by the owner and earnestly
sought after by his enemies. Destruction of the object means
destruction of the man. Lennox would never admit it, but he felt
exactly that way about his gimmick book. That was why he had become so
panicky when it was lost and quarreled so unreasonably with Cooper.
He spent hours at a time sewing it, mending it with scraps of leather
and metal, until it was a patchwork quilt of the original. It never
occurred to him that his soul might also be a patchwork of makeshift
repairs.
From tinkering with the notebook, he got to reading it, and presently a
forgotten idea caught his attention. He thought about it and the idea
took shape. Lennox got a yellow legal pad and soft pencils and began to
block out a script, grunting and mumbling softly to himself in the low
writer's grumble that only seismographs can record. Working away like
that, Cooper and Lennox sounded like a duet between a peanut whistle
and a cement mixer.
For the rest of the morning there was peace in the room, the old kind
of peace they hadn't known in the past week. Once Cooper murmured:
"Virgil, which sounds better?" He played two indistinguishable phrases
and Lennox rumbled appropriately. Once Lennox grunted: "Wolfgang, which
sounds better?" He read two indistinguishable phrases and Cooper keened
appropriately. This was the secret of their friendship and their deep
need for each other.
Creation is the loneliest work in the world, which is why most artists
go stir-crazy. By some miracle of human chemistry, Cooper and Lennox
were able to work together. Not only did they have companionship,
a rare thing for working artists, but each was able to draw on the
other's creative drive and enlarge his own. They never worked so well
as when they worked together in the same room.
At 11:15, Lennox grunted and mumbled his way to the kitchen for more
coffee, only to meet Cooper coming out with two cups in his hand.
Lennox took one and then forgot why. With his pencil he absently shaded
a moustache on Cooper's lip while Sam stood with eyes shut and hummed,
unaware of his disfigurement.
"No!" Lennox exclaimed suddenly. "The whole point of the scene is that
the ingénue pivots. More kissed against than kissing."
Cooper nodded to this gibberish, handed the second cup to Lennox and
went back to the piano still nodding like a porcelain mandarin. Lennox
returned to his yellow pad. The duet continued.
At 11:45 they met in the bathroom where Lennox added a goatee to the
moustache.
At 12:30 they met in the storage closet alongside Sam's room where the
cigarette cartons and stationery were stashed.
At 12:55, without a word or a sign to each other, they quit work
simultaneously and became aware of themselves and the world around
them. They were in the manic mood that always follows intense creative
concentration.
"Good morning," Cooper said. "You're new in this ward, aren't you?"
"I was here before you," Lennox said in hot tones.
"My good man, I was here before it was built. My name is Cornerstone."
"The name is familiar," Lennox mused. "But I can't remember the face."
"Ach! So. Und vhen did dis antikinetic facial phobia virst manifesdt
idself, Mr. Lennox?"
"I can't remember, Doctor," Lennox answered in a low voice.
"You can't remember? Tausend Teufel! Vas it at your mutter's breast?"
"I ... I don't remember."
"You must remember, Mr. Lennox, or I send you back to dat freud, Dr.
Quack."
"Will you try that line again, please."
"Oh. Sorry.... To dat quack, Dr. Freud."
"Wouldn't 'kvack' be more authentic?"
"Maybe, but I can't feel it, Mr. Sachs. There's a value missing."
"That's because you've got your dialects mixed. I know Dr. Livingston
wouldn't speak low Dutch. I have a talent for never being wrong."
"Livingston? I thought we were doing Pasteur. Cue, please."
"You see, Dr. Livingston, bosoms are my problem."
"Proceed, Mr. Stanley."
"They ... I know this sounds silly ... but they all look alike. And
there's always two. Two! Two! Two! Why can't there ever be an odd
number? Sometimes I think I'll go mad, do you hear? Mad! Mad! Mad!"
"Steady on, old man.... (Pipe business).... Pity you haven't read
my monograph on Trichinopoly ashes and busts. I can distinguish
twenty-four varieties by their action."
"Amazing!"
"Elementary. There's the plainbeat bust, the backfall bust, the double
backfall, the springer, the shaked elevation, the turn, the battery,
the double relish...."
"Sam!" Lennox interrupted in delight. "Where did you find those
ever-lovin' words?"
"It's musical ornamentation," Cooper grinned. "Didn't I ever tell you?
They're the old names for trills and grace notes and such, but they
kind of fit the front ornamentation of ladies too, don't they?"
Lennox nodded as he jotted down the words in his gimmick book.
"Kay Hill, for instance. She's the close shake. Irma Mason's the
battery. All directions. The dancers are strictly the plainbeat. One
bounce to a step. Robin's the shaked elevation. Your girl's the double
relish."
"Who? Gabby?" Lennox blushed.
"I noticed at the party. One of the few things I did notice, outside of
that hassle with Tooky Ween...."
"I'm sorry about that, Sam, but I had to protect you. You would
have...."
"And something Suidi let slip."
"Oh? What he let slip?"
"It was your party."
"It may have been my idea, but--"
"It was your bankroll."
"Oh. He blew it. In French or English?"
Cooper hoisted himself up on the piano and sat swinging his legs. Then
he began to speak, choosing his words carefully.
"I appreciate what you tried to do, Jake.... But let me tell you how.
Last year a kid cousin of mine bought me a birthday present. He saved
up his allowance and bought the best present he could think of ... a
bag of marbles."
"Immies," Lennox corrected absently.
"What?"
"They call them immies on The Rock."
"All right, immies. I appreciated that present, Jake. I was really
touched. I appreciated your present the same way. It touched me the
same way. You understand?"
"No."
"The kid didn't give me anything I could use. He gave me what he loved."
"You mean I'm a kid?"
"No, Jake. You gave me the thing you love most. And when you found out
I didn't want any part of it, you tried to make me want it. You don't
understand anybody not wanting to be a big wheel in the business, do
you? That's your bag of immies."
"What the hell are we working for?"
"Fun."
"Fun's not the answer. We've got to have something to show."
"Fun's enough for me."
"Why don't you grow up, Sam!" Lennox said impatiently. "You talk
about immies. You're the kid. Playing games with cap pistols. Soon as
somebody pulls a real gun on you, you turn chicken."
"All right. I'm a kid playing games. Leave me alone. Don't protect me.
Don't sponsor me. Don't try to shove a loaded gun into my hand." Cooper
jumped down off the piano. "What's that line you use on the agency
kibitzers when they try to make you rewrite a script their way? What do
you always say? Go ahead ... tell me."
"If you have to hang, hang on your own rope."
"Q.E.D.," Cooper said. "You want to keep things going the way they
always have?"
"You know that."
"Then lay off. Let me go to hell my own way."
Lennox turned away angrily. The hidden crevice in his mind opened and
Fink's dreadful hint shot up to the surface and burst like a bubble in
acid.
"Who wrote those letters?" he asked abruptly.
"What? What letters?"
"You know damned well what letters. I told you yesterday I found out
they're written to me. They're written by somebody named Knott. That's
the writing you recognized. Who's Knott?"
"Nobody I know."
"But you know the writing?"
"I thought so."
"Changed your mind recently?"
"What's eating you out all of a sudden?"
"I don't play games. Neither does Blinky. He found out I'm getting the
letters and I'm off the show. If there's any kind of trouble, he'll
murder me with a lawsuit. So it's coming up to the clutch. Two days to
Sunday. I'm in so deep, if anybody makes waves I'm dead. This is fun.
Yak it up."
"I'm not laughing."
"If you've got anything besides immies to contribute, now's the time.
Who wrote the letters?"
"Lay off, Jake. Don't badger me."
"You can't tell or you won't tell. Which is it?"
"I don't know. I can't remember."
"I think you're lying."
"That's a hell of a thing to say."
"It hurts to say it. I think you're lying."
"Why lying all of a sudden?"
"Not all of a sudden. It's a slow take. You recognize the writing, but
you don't know whose. When I tell you the name, it doesn't ring a bell.
Who the hell are you kidding, Judas?"
"Jake!"
"I'm fighting to hold on to what's between us, too. I don't think it
can live through a lie. Not now. Not when I'm on the cross yelling for
help. Is it a lie?"
Cooper shook his head.
"All of a sudden it's sour between us. Nothing I do is right. I try to
plug your tune. No good. I try to hold the chiselers off. I stink. I
try to fight my way out of a jam. You object. I suppose when I tell you
I've set it up for you and one of the dancers to do a duet of 'We're
The Most' in next Sunday's show you'll--"
"Damn you, Jake!" Cooper gestured angrily.
"I stink again. But by God you'll do it. What's got into you? What are
you trying to do ... slug me when I come around the corner? I don't
think you're trying to pull out of the rat-race. I think you're trying
to pull me down into the grave!"
Cooper attempted to speak, then gave it up and stormed into his room.
He slammed the door so hard that half a dozen books bounced off the
shelves. Lennox made no move to pick them up. The phone rang. Lennox
made no move to answer it. After five peals, it stopped, and a moment
later the P-lady called downstairs. Lennox picked up the living room
extension.
"Yes?"
"Jake, this is Melvin Grabinett."
"How are your associates?"
"What?"
"It's a question I've been wanting to ask you for years. Who the hell
are your associates anyway? Helter and Skelter?"
"Are you drunk?"
"No. Unemployed."
"Listen, I'm in Tom Bleutcher's suite at The Brompton House. Been here
the whole Almighty morning. Olga wants you to have lunch with us."
"Olga? Who she?"
"His daughter. You made a big hit with her last time they was in town.
Come on down."
"Get the new writer."
"I got no new writer. Anyway she yens for you. Come on down."
"Why should I help entertain the client? I'm off the show. Remember?"
"You still got a piece of the royalties. You want to keep on
collecting? Help keep it on the air. Come on down."
* * * * *
Grabinett's relations with his client were shaky because they were
based on marriage. Grabinett's wife was the daughter of Pan-American
Export. Grabinett's father-in-law was the biggest single purchaser of
Mode Shoes, exporting thousands of pairs each year to South American
dealers. So long as Mode Shoes remained on Pan-American's catalogue,
Tom Bleutcher would remain Blinky's client. But he didn't have to like
it.
He was a heavy man with a red face and thick iron-grey hair; a third
generation German, and the Germans are the best shoe manufacturers
in the world. They are also the most pig-headed manufacturers in the
world. Bleutcher had formed his opinions in Chicago during the years
1900-1910. Nothing that had taken place subsequently had served to
alter them. He did not believe in advertising. He did not believe in
television. He was convinced that if a man builds a better mousetrap,
the world will beat a path to his door. He ran his million dollar firm
like a mousetrap maker and was the despair of his advertising staff.
His daughter, Olga, youngest of a family of seven, was the Intellectual
Bleutcher. She had just graduated from college, had had her year at the
Sorbonne, and was the soul of the Brockton Literary, Marching & Chowder
Society. She was plain, verging on ugly, with a broad saddle nose and
wide clown mouth; but she had good teeth and magnificent cat's eyes.
Her figure was so arresting that it had to be thought of as a body, and
after sufficient contemplation of that body, most men raised their eyes
above the neck and even found the face attractive.
In the grill room of The Brompton House, a tiered oval around a dance
floor on which visiting Firemen shuffled to the music of a lymphatic
band, the quartette drank Manhattans, ate shrimp cocktails, lobster
bisque, fried oysters, French fried potatoes, French fried onions,
French fried eggplant, Waldorf salad, strawberry shortcake and coffee.
Mr. Bleutcher insisted on fish on Friday. He saved his beef for labor
unions, manufacturing costs and the iniquities of the open-toe craze.
In addition, he disapproved of smoking for women, high wages for
labor, modern dress and all modern medicine outside of chiropractic
correction. Although he never once looked at Grabinett or Lennox, he
demanded their complete attention. Grabinett blinked his all. Lennox
gave as much as he could spare from the daughter.
Olga was very young and very intense. She put her hand on Jake's arm
and discussed Sartre, Kafka and Henry James. Since she was seated
on his right, this made eating difficult for Jake. She was plainly
excited with him as a professional writer. "Christ in close-up," Lennox
thought. "She wants to be a writer too. I'm dead." She attempted
an arresting originality of conversation that was exhausting. In
self-preservation, Lennox asked her to dance. This was a mistake.
Olga Bleutcher was a lovely dancer, but she didn't melt into Jake's
arms. She projected her body against him and operated with alarming
suggestiveness. There was no escaping the pressures of her bosom, her
torso and thighs. It was obvious that Olga too was aware of her big
selling point. It was also obvious that she had been under restraint
while she was with her father.
"My God!" she whispered in Jake's ear. "Isn't he a reactionary old
fart?"
Lennox tried to turn his grunt of amazement into a chuckle.
"Do you think they'd let us sneak a smoke on the floor?" Olga asked.
"I'm dying for a cigarette."
"I don't know. We can try."
"You keep dancing," she murmured. "I'll find them."
Her hands began exploring his pockets. Lennox had to explain that he
didn't carry cigarettes because he didn't smoke. "What have I got
myself into?" he wondered. "Is she a nympho?"
Miss Bleutcher pressed herself against him. "It's so comforting dancing
with a big man," she said. "You can spread out on him. There was a
private beach north of Cannes where I used to strip and sunbathe. You
feel just like the sand."
"Careful of the shells," Lennox muttered. He glanced down at her. All
he could see was the cat's eyes. He was alarmed to discover that she
was getting better looking.
"Where can a _soi-disant_ virgin get plastered New Year's Eve?" Miss
Bleutcher inquired.
"You're going to be in town over New Year's?"
"I'm going to be on the town New Year's ... after Four-Buckle Arctics
corks off."
"Who?"
Olga Bleutcher motioned with her head toward her father. "I'm going
to pour myself into a strapless and come to no good. Have you got any
suggestions?"
"I've got a basic suggestion, but I also have a show to worry about
tomorrow night," Lennox stalled. "I'll phone. What's the password?
Metatarsal?"
She laughed. "Bunions. No, leave a message for me at the switchboard.
Just say it's for Olga. They understand a gal's problems."
After five minutes more of New Year's preview, Lennox managed to
detach her from his anatomy and return to the table. As they sat down,
a waiter appeared and presented a telephone message to Bleutcher who
read it carefully, then excused himself and lumbered toward the hotel
phones. Olga at once took a cigarette from Grabinett's pack, picked up
her handbag and departed for the woman's lounge. Lennox and Grabinett
were left alone.
There was a long pause. Finally Grabinett lifted his eyes and blinked
into Jake's hard, level gaze.
"If you don't want any trouble, don't say anything," Lennox warned.
Grabinett's mouth opened and his face twitched. Lennox poured cold
coffee into his cup and went through the motions of drinking it.
"Borden wants you and me down to his office for a conference with
Bacon," Grabinett blinked suddenly. "Two thirty."
Lennox didn't answer.
"What's Bacon after?"
"Sachs' job," Lennox answered curtly.
"The hell he is! He ain't going to get away with it."
"He is, and I'm going to help him."
"How do you think you're going to swing it? Who's running this Almighty
show anyway?"
"The three of us are going to vote Sachs out. And if you give us any
trouble, I've got an ace in the hole."
"What?"
"Give Ned a hard time and find out."
Grabinett blinked uncertainly. At last he blurted: "All I'm trying to
do is keep a show on the air. You're giving me the hard time. That
letter scandal, and now Bacon. What are you? In business or in war?
Listen. I got a contract with Sachs. He gets a flat weekly retainer
and it's a gut-buster. If I keep him working all my shows I just about
break even. But if I got to pay out an extra seven and a half bills to
Bacon for direction--Will you guys be reasonable! Have a heart!"
Lennox stared at Grabinett incredulously. "Are you human?"
"I'm asking you to be human."
"You knifed me less than twenty-four hours ago. The moment when I
needed every check I could get and all the help I could get, you kicked
me off the show. And now you have the gall to ask me to have a heart!
Lay there and bleed!"
"You're crazy!" Grabinett explained. "A crazy writer. What are you
cuddling a grudge for? You get yourself into a jam and then you blame
me for protecting the show. Didn't you tell me Monday I had to keep my
nose clean? So I took your advice. What do you want from me?"
"I want the same thing from you that I want from the rest of the
world!" Lennox shouted. "I want a fair shake."
"Jake! Quiet! Keep it quiet!" Grabinett blinked around in
embarrassment, then focussed his twitch on Lennox. He lowered his
voice. "All right. Here's a deal. I'll stick with you if you'll stick
with me. Yes? You're back on the show."
"How do I stick with you?"
"No Bacon on the payroll. Sachs stays. If Bacon wants to direct TV
leave him do it at somebody else's expense. Not on my budget. Okay?"
Lennox swallowed.
"Hurry up, Jake. Here comes Bleutcher. Is it a deal? For the good of
the show you vote with me. We're satisfied with how the show's going.
We want to keep everything exactly the way it always was. Yes?"
"Yes, by God!" Lennox said. "Yes."
Bleutcher lumbered up to the table and sat down. "Mr. Audibon has been
trying to reach me at the Brockton office," he explained.
Grabinett started. "What for?"
"I have not been advised as yet. His office called four times."
"Did you call him back, Mr. Bleutcher?"
"He's been out to lunch for two hours." Bleutcher compressed his lips.
"It is most inadvisable for a business man to clog his digestive
system with heavy foods during the working day. My staff has standing
orders to restrict the midday meal to greens and roughage. Our plant
cafeteria...."
Bleutcher lectured on fats, proteins and carbohydrates until Olga
returned to the table. Grabinett paid the check with nervous haste and
the luncheon party broke up.
"We'll see you at the show Sunday, Mr. Bleutcher?" he blinked.
Bleutcher nodded ponderously.
"Just leave word for Olga," Miss Bleutcher whispered.
Lennox nodded absently.
In the lobby of The Brompton House, Grabinett darted to a phone booth
and called the network. Audibon had not yet returned from lunch.
Grabinett came out of the booth, blinking anxiously.
"He's been trying to get me all morning too. What the Almighty mischief
is he up to? What a business! Come on, Jake. Let's take care of Bacon
first."
Avery Borden's office had the quality of a court room. His high-backed
desk chair looked like a judge's bench. Against one wall was a line
of mahogany armchairs that looked like a jury box. When they entered,
Bacon was sprawled on two of the chairs, confiding a thief-type
revelation to Borden who was leaning against a window, glasses in hand,
fascinated. Lennox and Grabinett sat down quietly and waited. No matter
how savage warfare may be on The Rock, there is one sacred law that is
never broken. No man ever kills the point of another man's story.
When it was over and Borden had reacted satisfactorily, Bacon stood up
and began to swagger back and forth across the office. He preferred
to sit when other men were standing, and to stand when other men were
sitting. Borden obligingly seated himself behind the desk.
"Now we're all here to read the up-state returns," Bacon drawled. "The
show isn't sick yet, but when you pull out the thermometer any interne
can read the temperature. It hasn't broken a hundred, but it will if we
don't yank the substitutes and send in the regulars."
Borden's phone buzzed. He picked it up, murmured for a minute, put it
down and apologized.
"You can't run a variety show like a girl's weeny roast," Bacon
continued. "Sooner or later some eager beaver is going to get a fork in
her eye and drop the marshmallows into the fire."
Borden's phone buzzed. He picked it up, murmured for a minute, put it
down and apologized.
"Now I'm the last man to blow the whistle on another man's act," Bacon
went on. "But we were in the fire last Sunday and if Jake hadn't cut
the heart of the plate from left field, they'd still be running the
bases. What we need is organization and direction. The show's got to be
handled like a military operation, and Sachs isn't the man to set up
the cadre."
"It isn't a question of talent," Borden said tactfully. "Nobody's
attacking Sachs on the genius level. But Ned feels the show needs a man
more experienced in--"
Borden's phone buzzed. He picked it up, murmured for a minute, put it
down and apologized.
"More experienced in the aspects of handling talent rather than
providing talent," he went on. He charmed Bacon with a tactful smile.
"Editor's note: This in no way implies that you can't or won't provide
talent when required."
Bacon swaggered up to Grabinett and stood over him. "Here it is,
wrapped for delivery. Sachs had his turn at bat. He couldn't get on
base. Now it's time for the clutch hitter to come up. Are you with me
or are you going to throw the game?"
Grabinett squirmed in his chair. "God damn it! This is my Almighty
show. I'm satisfied with Sachs."
"Your show?" Bacon laughed. "I'll read the fine print for you. Jake and
I worked this up together. It was a smart panel show with demonstrated
questions that had sell. You had Tom Bleutcher in your pocket and no
show for him. Of all the crap Bleutcher saw, he liked our package best.
But the network wouldn't sell the time unless they could put Mason to
work in a musical. So we all joined the team and pooled the bats and
gloves. Bleutcher let you shove a variety show down his throat. You let
the network hang Mason onto your budget. And we let you chisel fifty
percent of the package out of us. But what the hell did you contribute,
talentwise, that makes you the Captain?"
"I'm satisfied with Sachs!" Grabinett shouted.
"The rest of us aren't, so Sachs goes."
"And I'm not the only Almighty one satisfied with Sachs, so he stays."
"I've got my boys with me. Who've you got?"
"I got Lennox."
"Enlighten him, Jake," Bacon drawled.
Lennox took a deep breath. "Ned, I'm sorry. I have to vote with Mel."
Bacon's face froze.
"I know what your problem is, Ned, and you know I sympathize. But I've
got problems too. I've got to go along with Mel."
"You yellow scab! You're selling me out? What was the price? Don't I
even get a chance to bid against his thirty pieces of silver?"
"If I'd known in time I'd have warned you."
"You didn't have the guts, you cheap--"
"I know you're burning and I don't blame you, but I want to tell you
something. I'm having a rough time myself this week and I'll take just
so much from you and no more. You're not the only man in this office
with a boom over his head. Remember that."
Bacon turned on Grabinett. "All right, shyster, you got to one juror in
the box, but the fix isn't in yet. I've got another ace to play." He
gave Lennox a sour smile. "Your card, Benedict."
"Don't play it," Lennox growled. "It's a deuce."
"I can have Sachs thrown off the show for unethical conduct," Bacon
persisted. "That corn-ball tried the casting couch routine with an
actress named--"
"Shut up, Ned," Lennox cut in. "It isn't going to do you any good. I
won't back the story and neither will she if I tell her not to. Leave
her name out of it."
"Damn you!" Bacon yelled. "What are you doing to me? Cutting my heart
out with a dull knife?"
"He's protecting the Almighty show, that's what he's doing!" Grabinett
blurted. "Why don't you let me keep it on the air? What do you want
from me? I provided the client. Ain't that enough? Maybe I got no
talent, but you don't see me dragging scandal into the studio. Dirty
letters and dirty cracks about my director. For Christ's sake, let's
all make a buck and live in peace."
"I'm going to direct my own show," Bacon answered. "And I'm starting
the first of the year whether you or my former partner like it or not.
You want to make a buck, do you? Then make it on another sucker's
brains; because if I don't direct my own show, I want it back. I'm
taking it off the air. I'm picking up my marbles and going home."
"Talk sense, Ned!" Lennox cried.
"Shut up!" Bacon looked at him with loathing. "If you ever talk to me
again I'll cut your guts out. You knew what this meant to me. You know
the spot I'm in. 'The People Against--' is cancelled. The old man is
through. They've retired his number. This is the one hold I've got on
the future and you're stamping on my fingers. For why? What've you got
to lose giving me a break?"
Borden's phone buzzed. He picked it up, murmured for a minute, put it
down and said: "The show's cancelled."
They all turned incredulously.
"That was Roy Audibon. The network isn't renewing our Sunday night
time. I think we'd better table this hassle and get over there right
away."
* * * * *
Tookey Ween was in one of the red leather library chairs and Audibon
stood before the illuminated nebula when the three men entered the
office. Before the door was closed, a five-way battle was joined,
and the melee continued for fifteen minutes. The only way to describe
that brawl is to name the records from the network sound library that
a soundman would have to use to duplicate it. Spinning two turntables,
he would blend 261B--APPLAUSE: 5th CUT; BOOS AND SLIGHT HISSES, with
259A--RIOT CROWD EFFECTS: FRENCH CROWD, LARGE GROUP OF MEN, INCITED TO
RIOT BY FRENCH COMMANDS. He might also hammer on the studio walls to
get the desk-pounding effect.
Through all the fury, Audibon remained adamant. The network was not
renewing the time. After a quarter of an hour had elapsed, he looked at
his watch and took control of the situation.
"We're discussing a half hour show," he said sharply. "I can't allocate
more than the show's time to the discussion time. I have another
appointment coming up. Now ... if you've been listening to me with your
inner ear, you know the network's position. The nine to nine-thirty
Sunday night slot is rated at ten points better than 'Who He?' is
doing."
"Roy...." Borden began.
Audibon held up his hand. "We're not an entertainment business. We're
an institution. We have prestige to maintain. We have our honor to
polish. One of my responsibilities is to see to it that every one of
our shows reaches and maintains its ultimate rating. Entertainment
isn't our goal...." Audibon reached up and rapped the nebula with his
knuckles. "_This_ is our goal."
"Damn it, Roy," Borden exploded. "Level with me. You and I know what's
behind this decision. It's the old network-agency feud. You people
can't forget that you sold out your radio time to the agencies and lost
control of your own business. You're so damned scared of that happening
with television that you're cancelling our show ... not because the
rating isn't high enough, but because the network doesn't own the
package. You want nothing but network packages filling network time."
Audibon smiled.
"It's a seller's market today," Borden shouted. "You've got a dozen
clients begging for every slot across the board. You can play snotty
and get away with it. But the market'll turn. If costs don't kick you
out of the saddle, then boredom will. And when that happens you'll come
begging to us. You'll come begging and we'll spit in your eye."
"Incidentally," Audibon murmured. "I'm having this discussion
recorded ... for legal purposes." He pointed to a small microphone on
the upper shelves of the breakfront.
"It's a sick show," Ween rumbled suddenly. He got up. "For the record
I want my property out of that show and out of that spot. It's a sick
show on account of him!" He pointed to Lennox dramatically. "He's the
one who's made all the trouble. Him and his poison pen letters. He's
been writing the whole show with a poison pen ... and now he's put my
property in danger of physical violence. If anything happens to Mig on
Sunday, I'll sue!"
Ween waddled to the door and yanked it open. He glared at Lennox.
"Protect your property, will you? You got nothing to protect. Nothing.
Now go shove yourself up it." He exited and slammed the door.
Borden looked at Lennox. "Are you behind this?" he asked icily. "That
Knott business you pestered me with yesterday. Is that what he means?"
"He's getting threats for something Almighty dirty he pulled off,"
Grabinett shouted.
"I'm sorry to say that's one of the important reasons for cancelling,"
Audibon said smoothly. "The rating was only one factor; but when
Tooky told me about the difficulties that Jake's been creating ...
embarrassing the star, embarrassing the show.... We decided that we
couldn't let him embarrass the network."
Borden arose, gave Lennox one deadly cut-throat stare and marched
out, followed by Bacon who was too furious even to look at Lennox.
Grabinett sputtered and blinked for a moment, helpless before Audibon's
smile and Jake's impassivity.
"It was that sock in the jaw last night, wasn't it, Roy?" Lennox asked
quietly. "You're fighting like Tooky, aren't you?"
Audibon gazed at the water color and said nothing.
"Tooky ran off at the mouth because I wouldn't let him chisel a piece
out of a hit tune. That was his knife in my back. You're cancelling
because you were a louse last night and I called you on it. It isn't
the seller's market or the rating or the galaxy or my personal mess.
It isn't anything but revenge because I pasted you in the jaw. This is
your knife in my back."
"You Almighty sabotoor!" Grabinett cried. "The deal is off. You hear
me? It's off."
"The show's off, Mel."
"And I'm taking it out of your hide. If it's the last thing I do, I'm
taking it out of your hide, you Christ Almighty Vandal!"
Grabinett flung out of the office without bothering to slam the door.
Audibon sauntered over, closed it gently, then smiled at Lennox.
"So here you are, Jake."
"I'll be on my way. Perish the thought that I should hold up your next
appointment."
"You're my next appointment. Sit down. Enjoy." Audibon drifted to the
breakfront, opened the lower drawers and revealed a silver-lined bar.
"Drink?"
"Thanks. Brandy, please."
"Soda?"
"Straight."
Audibon filled two large shot-glasses and carried them to Lennox. As
he extended one glass, his control slipped, and in a blaze of fury he
slashed two ounces of dark brandy into Jake's face. Lennox laughed and
stood up.
"That's all I want, Roy. Thanks for the confession."
"Look at you," Audibon said in a voice that shook. "Take a panoramic
of yourself. Where are you? You've got no show. You've got no partner.
Your agency's ready to blacklist you. This network's blacklisting you.
You're got no friends. You've got no business. You've got nothing.
Nothing!"
"But I've got something you haven't got, Roy."
"Never."
Lennox tapped the water color. "I've got the original of this."
"Never!"
Lennox smiled.
"So you're chasing," Audibon snorted. "Go ahead and chase. You'll never
catch up. Not while she remembers me...."
"Who's chasing?"
"Then you're bluffing, you--"
"Who's bluffing?"
Audibon went white, then red. He turned, walked to the desk and put
down the shot-glasses so violently that they clattered.
"I'm waiting for your offer," Lennox said pleasantly.
"Get out," Audibon said in a low voice.
"Tooky offered to trade. Blinky offered to trade. Why not you? Let's
hear how contemptible you can get."
Audibon swung around. "I'll see you in hell first!" He came at Lennox
so fast that Lennox only had time enough to grasp his arms above the
elbow. They strained at each other for half a minute.
"I'll see you dead and rotting first," Audibon panted. "I'll run you
out of the business. I'll run you off The Rock. If she stays with you,
I'll run her off too. I'll see both of you dead first."
"Do you love her?"
"I'll kill her!"
Lennox looked deep into Audibon's drawn face. "I'm seeing you for the
first time," he said. "And for the first time I'm beginning to like
you."
Audibon broke out of Jake's grasp and staggered back against the desk.
His hand fumbled behind him, and an instant later the office door
opened and his secretary entered.
"Yes, Mr. Audibon?"
"Lennox is leaving."
"It's funny what The Rock does," Lennox said. "We ought to be friends."
He turned and left.
"Get me Miss Valentine at Houseways, Inc." Audibon told his secretary.
She closed the door behind her. He went to the bar and had a shot. Then
he opened his wallet and took out the slip of paper Macro had thrown
into his waste basket. The phone buzzed.
"Gabby? Roy. I want to see you tonight. It's important. No, I can't
tell you on the phone. I said it was important. Yes. When? All right,
I'll pick you up."
He dropped the phone, went to the bar and had another shot. Then he
wandered to the water color and examined the picture while his fingers
mechanically smoothed Macro's slip of paper. Suddenly the dazzling
smile reappeared on his lips.
"Never," he said. "Never."